


Give me my sin again.

by orphan_account



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: (mild), 5+1 Things, Butt Plugs, Deepthroating, Dom/sub Undertones, Drinking Games, Exhibitionism, Facials, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, M/M, Off-screen Relationship(s), Platonic Kissing, Recreational Drug Use, Referenced Light Bondage, Semi-Public Sex, Sexting, Shower Sex, Simulated Blow Jobs, Teasing, Truth or Dare, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-30
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2018-05-17 04:13:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5853757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eric Richard Bittle: adorable, sweet, Objectively The Best At Sex || Jack Zimmermann: doomed</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bitty Gets Ahead

**Author's Note:**

> prompted by [mrsfreddykrueger](http://mrsfreddykrueger.tumblr.com/) a truly inexcusable length of time ago.
> 
> still a wip, but at this point 3/6 chapters are complete and everything is planned. i am just. so bad. at doing things.
> 
> thanks a _million_ to [samsamtastic](http://samsamtastic.tumblr.com/) for betaing and generally tolerating my excessive use of exclamation points (in correspondence) and ambiguous pronouns (in fic)
> 
> why, yes, the title is a quote from romeo and juliet, act i scene v. don't even pretend shakesbro wouldn't love it.

They haven’t been together for very long, but it’s been enough time that Bitty is over the shell-shock that used to rock him every time he remembered Jack is his boyfriend. He still gets a squirming bellyful of sheer joy whenever Jack is in the room; every flickering look or sweep of Jack’s hand on his skin takes his breath away just like it always has. Three weeks in, though, Eric finally accepts this is  _ real _ and Jack is his as much as anyone can ever belong to anyone else.

So, knowing it’s not a figment of his imagination and that the boy of his dreams really does spend his nights tangled in the sheets with him, Bitty starts to get antsy.

Jack is courteous, but as much as Eric preens under his cautious attentions — as wonderful as it is to be adored and cradled with obvious care — he wants Jack to let loose. Sex isn’t as fun when you spend half the night after working the kinks out of your boyfriend’s muscles. Jack’s given himself cramps everywhere from supporting all his weight when he’s on top of Bitty.

They have talked about it a little, in roundabout ways. Bitty hasn’t complained, but some nights when they’re cuddled under Eric’s comforter with Jack’s heartbeat echoing in his chest it comes up.

“I’m so worried I’m going to break you sometimes,” Jack confesses into the curls at the crown of Bitty’s head. “You’re young, and you’re so sweet. I know you’re not a blushing virgin or anything, but I’d never forgive myself if I… If I changed you, I guess.”

“You don’t need to protect me, honey,” Bitty assures him with light kisses to his collarbone. “Telling me what you want isn’t gonna ruin me like I’m some kind of debutante.”

“I know,” Jack says. Completely unconvinced.

“And besides,” Bitty adds, catching the peak of Jack’s nipple with only the barest pressure from his teeth. “I think I might surprise you if you give me the chance.”

Jack’s jaw drops like he has a rebuttal, but it fades under the cresting swell of a moan low in his throat.

It doesn’t get through to his giant Canadian sweetheart then, but Bitty’s not out of plays just yet. If he can’t use his words to sway Jack, he’s just going to rely on old-fashioned body language.

“Ice pops!” Bitty hollers up the staircase after he pulls the rack of molds out from the freezer. There’s been an early October heat wave that would’ve had Bitty considering switching back to his shorts in Georgia, but the other boys in the Haus are fit to perish if their moaning is anything to go by. Bitty took pity on them and whipped up an autumn berry syrup to break in his silicone popsicle forms. Lardo was kind enough to sacrifice two dozen of the economy sized-pack of sticks she’d stolen from the art department.

“You are a literal life saver, Bits,” Shitty says, peeling himself off from the linoleum tile floor of the kitchen, squelching where his abundance of bare skin was plastered down. He extends a pathetic, limp hand toward Bitty in an entreaty. “The tile isn’t cutting it anymore — we reached our fucking equilibrium.”

As the other three clamber down into the kitchen from their rooms with varying degrees of dignity, Eric eyeballs Shitty.

“I know you’re not gonna like it, but I think you’ll feel a lot better if you put some briefs on.” Bitty hands him the tray and tries not to smirk at the betrayed scowl hiding under Shitty’s stache. “I’m serious. It’ll keep your behind from sticking.”

Shitty bites the tip off his pop and sighs.

“Compromise can be a beautiful thing, but sometimes a brah’s just gotta stand up for what he believes in.”

It’s moving, sentimental, and Bitty nearly cries laughing.

In Bitty’s experience, there are fewer things more homoerotic than a house full of muscle-bound boys — one of them stark nude and spread-eagle on the floor — hanging around in his kitchen sucking on popsicles. He’s sure he’s had dreams like this, but even in his dreams, Jack wasn’t lounging at the table in just his jogging shorts and chuckling at Ransom’s blowjob technique.

“How the hell am I the worst?” Ransom cries, a thin path of drool slipping down his chin, tinted deep red. “Shitty  _ bit _ his! Unless you’ve been hiding a pretty nasty kink, I’m pretty sure he’s the actual worst.”

“Bro,” Holster says, “don’t you dare kinkshame me in my own home.”

“Nah, Rans is right; I can’t suck cock for shit. Hair trigger gag reflex.”

Ransom folds his arms across his chest and grins, popsicle trailing unnoticed against the skin of his shoulder.

“Suck on that, Holster. Like you can do better anyway.”

Which, of course, begins a competition no one really wanted but one that Bitty can’t seem to look away from. It’s like dueling banjos with more, heinously misapplied teeth as Rans and Holster try to one-up each other with ridiculous maneuvers. It only proves to Eric that neither of these boys has ever touched another man’s dick before.

“How are y’all so bad at this?” Bitty asks after Ransom’s coughing fit ends. He really shouldn’t have tried swallowing so soon out of the gate. “Haven’t you ever paid attention when a girl’s done it for you?”

“Bro, there’s like. So much hair,” Holster says, Ransom spluttering in the background about being distracted.

“That’s just…” There’s only so much straight nonsense he can handle. 

“Promise me you’ll research before you ever decide to try this again.”

Jack laps at a trickle of ice melt rolling down his wrist, and Bitty’s belly tightens.

“Matter of fact, why don’t you just watch and learn?”

The boys sit in a row in front of him, eager to drink from the well of knowledge. All Eric can see is the way the blood rushes to Jack’s cheeks so they nearly match his lips, dyed dark by the berries. Bitty watches him shift in his seat, catches the tiny swell at his crotch, and smiles.

He’s barely touched his ice pop yet, absorbed by the contest as it unfolded, so it’s still completely intact, if a little sticky with condensation.

He doesn’t let his eyes flicker away from Jack’s when he parts his lip and lets the tip glide across his bottom lip first, then in a second sweep against the top.

“ _ Bor _ ing. This is like, HBO After Dark quality porn, Bits.”

He doesn’t let Holster’s teasing faze him, just dips the blunt edge in and out of his pout in shallow drags. He sucks enough so there’s a tiny pop at each withdrawal and his lips slacken. Jack stares like Tiny Tim on Christmas Eve.

“Keep your eyes on me,” Bitty says, letting his lips catch on the raspberry syrup as he speaks. He licks it off before dropping his chin a little lower and resting the first few inches of his popsicle against the flat of his tongue. Eric draws it out slowly, letting himself savor the sweetness but sure to drag the shaft to tug against his lower lip.

Jack has stopped breathing, it seems, and new sweat beads on his temples.

“Fuck me up the ass,” Shitty coughs. “Ransom, I need to borrow your shorts.”

When Bitty smiles, his lips seal, and at least two of the guys gasp.

“I need these. Own your boner like a man.”

“That’s some cissexist bullcrap. My boner has jack shit to do with my manhood.”

“Would you shut the fuck up?” Holtzy barks. Bitty hums a little, the sound echoing because he’s still only working the tip and his mouth is mostly empty. The chatter stops, and Jack turns in his chair, lap and legs obscured by the tabletop.

“You’re gonna want to get it wet as you can next,” Eric tells them. “Not everyone likes it sloppy though, so don’t use too much spit when you’re starting out.”

He dampens his tongue and tips his jaw toward his chest, and then he licks along the popsicle from its base, tilting his head up as he comes toward the head. At the tip, he suckles for a second and swallows some of the berry juice. He twists the stick in his fingers a quarter of the way and makes a second strip exactly the same as the first.

The blackberries and raspberries were just a touch overripe, and their sweetness coats Eric’s throat with every mouthful.

“Now, y’all’ll use your hands here if you ever try for yourselves, but I think you’ll get the idea.”

Mouth parted, Bitty winks at Jack, who’s slumped so low in his chair he’s almost falling out, and he notices that while one of Jack’s hands has the seat’s edge in a white-knuckle grip, the other is nowhere Bitty can see.

He starts off easy, putting his ice pop only two-thirds of the way in before closing his mouth around it and sucking for real. His cheeks flatten with the vacuum of his mouth, and he swivels his tongue against the pop’s side.

It drags slowly when he pulls it away the first time, the cold sticking in little tugs against the skin of his lips, and he lets his mouth part again when he pops it in deeper than the last go.

After three or four passes, when he can see the depression of Jack biting the inside of his cheek, Bitty slides his popsicle back until his fist is a hairsbreadth from his jaw. The ice cools the back of his throat, just tapping behind his soft palate, and he starts to pump it in and out. His hand is making half the effort, but his steady pressure pulls the pop back in reliably the second Eric lets up on the resistance. It bobs fluidly, like a buoy on a lake, and it only gets faster the slicker it gets — Bitty’s fingers and chin are sticky.

He sees Jack tense up, shoulders squaring and the tendon of his neck popping taut, and Eric would recognize that look anywhere. He slides the popsicle out and lets it rest damply outside his mouth, cool against the flushed skin around Bitty’s mouth. He hopes that in the seconds that Jack peaks he gets his point across, watching without doing anything more than holding the edge of his tongue against the very tip.

“ _ Holy  _ — “

“Jesus friggin Christ, Bitty, you — “

“Girls do it wrong. I want that on record.”

“Did you learn something today?” Eric chirps, pulse raging under his skin when he eyes the row of gentlemen at his feet.

He’s definitely had dreams like this.

Holster clacks his teeth together and swallows.

“Yeah — I finally understand why I didn’t score a zero on that Kinsey thing Shits made me take.”

It says a lot about the state of the men’s hockey team that Rans, Holtzy, and Shitty are sitting next to each other, each with an erection. It says more about the team that this isn’t the first time Eric’s seen Shitty completely naked and hard.

“Alright, go take care of yourselves,” Bitty waves them off.

Holster and Ransom help each other up, but when they offer Shitty a hand on either side, he shakes his head.

“You’re my brothers, and I love you, but I don’t think I can handle human touch without dishonoring my entire goddamn lineage.”

He’s solemn, padding to his room; Holster and Ransom standing aside soberly.

“I call our room,” Holster announces.

“Do it,” Rans mutters. “I think Bits just ruined masturbating for me.”

And suddenly, Eric is alone with Jack.

He puts what’s left of his ice pop in the sink and stalks to the kitchen table.

He’s a little taller than Jack when he’s standing and Jack’s sitting down, so he smirks down and slips the fingers of his clean hand through Jack’s hair.

“What about you, honey?”

Jack looks at Bitty like he’s speaking Greek.

“Did you learn anything?”

He’s a little worried he broke his boyfriend when Jack still stares at him with huge, blown open blue eyes.

“Jack?” He asks again, absently sucking the syrup off his index finger while he checks for signs of life.

“You ruined my shorts,” Jack mutters.

“Technically  _ you _ did that.”

Bitty isn’t really sure he wanted to push Jack to the point of rutting on the floor, but Jack launches into him, sending them both toppling to the ground. He can’t find it in him to be sorry when Jack covers Bitty with his body and rolls hips into the inviting spread of Eric’s legs.


	2. Eric Bittle, Puck Bunny

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shoutouts to [mrsfreddykrueger](http://mrsfreddykrueger.tumblr.com/) for the prompt and for the patience, [samsamtastic](http://samsamtastic.tumblr.com/) for the beta and for the also patience, [eli](http://dazeli.tumblr.com) for the on-the-spot québétaing and the probably also patience, and finally [gongshow jeans](http://www.gongshowgear.com/us/men/bottoms.html) for complimenting either the wearer or the lucky person who happens to be at eye-level with the crotch of the wearer.
> 
> translations (all two of them) via hovertext and as endnotes

_ SOS! Puck bunny in my bedroom! _

It shouldn’t take long for Jack to find his way upstairs through the throngs of people partying with a call to action like that. Jack Zimmermann is too chivalrous for his own good, sometimes.

Sure enough, Bitty’s own knight in shining armor barges into his room less than a minute later, his serious-captain-business frown curving sharply against his rigid jaw. It melts after he scans the room and sees they’re alone.

“You know, you didn’t have to lie to me to get me to leave the party.” He slides the door shut and leans his back against it with a smug grin and folded arms.

The only way Bitty’s able to sit comfortably is backwards in his computer chair, ass hanging off the lip and ankles hooked around the legs. He pushes back with his heels, leaving his cell phone on the seat, and widens his eyes.

“I wouldn’t lie about something like that, Jack!”

Scoffing, Jack rolls his eyes.

“I don’t think you can call yourself a puck bunny when you’re actually on the team, Bits.”

It’s cute that Jack’s eyebrow is still cocked and that he thinks he’s still got the upper hand here, but Eric isn’t so endeared that he’s going to give Jack the win.

“We’ll see,” he says, and he unwinds Jack’s arms to set the boy to work on the drawstring of Bitty's borrowed pajama pants. Coyly, Jack fiddles with the bow and lets his knuckles graze the fabric of the waistband.

Towing them back to the edge of his bedframe, Bitty shivers at the pressure against the hardness he feels like he’s been enduring for hours rather than a few dozen minutes.

“Eager?” Jack laughs, the air tickling Bitty’s temple where Jack’s bent over to press kisses.

“When you have the top NHL draft prospect of 2009 in your room, it’s hard not to get a little flustered.”

“No matter what Holster told you, I’ve never actually hooked up with a fan.” He cups the back of Bitty’s neck in his palms and presses his mouth to Eric’s once, lushly. His chest pushes into Bitty as he tries to spread them out across the bed, but Eric presses back with the tips of his fingers on Jack’s arms to stop him.

“Maybe it’s time to change that,” he whispers up to Jack’s nonplussed frown. As soon as Bitty puts up resistance, he lightens his touch and steps back. With enough room now to maneuver, Bitty catches Jack’s hands and hooks both their thumbs under the elastic.

The band catches as it slides past the curve of his behind, sending Eric shivering off balance and and wobbling into Jack’s bicep when he steps out of the pooled fabric at his ankles. Every inch of his skin tingles with anticipation — he grounds himself with feathery kisses against the underside of Jack’s neck and the soothing softness of the old SMH shirt under his hands.

Adam’s apple bobbing, Jack stares at the jock Bitty’s been wearing under his pants and toes off his shoes. Bitty tugs his tank up and off, throwing it to his side.

Jack tries to mirror him, fighting the hem of his t-shirt, and Bitty says, “Keep that on, please.”

He shakes his head when Jack fumbles with his jeans.

“Those, too,” he tuts.

“Bittle, what — ”

He undoes the button and the zip, barely swallowing his giggle when he reads  _ UR A BEAUTY  _ written in bold white inside the fly. Jack’s dick is stiff when Bitty wraps it in his fingers, but not so hard he can’t work it over the waistband and guide it out between the flaps of light-wash denim.

“I want it just like this.” Eric leans into Jack’s ear and whispers, tightening his grip for a moment that leaves Jack panting into Bitty’s hair.

Jack runs his nails down Bitty’s back, giving over to the tips of his fingers when he reached the slope of Eric’s ass. Bitty whines at the sting of Jack snapping a strap lightly against his skin before his hands trail closer to the cleft of his behind and freeze.

“ _ Késsé ça? _ ”1 Jack pets the down wonderingly, but Bitty pulls away before he can give away the surprise.

“Why don’t you get my lube. And a condom, while you’re at it.”

Jack drags his gaze away as reluctantly as taffy from a pull and shuffles to Bitty’s dresser, his socks slipping on the old wooden floor. Eric slips out of his jockey before Jack’s even yanked the drawer open, and he rests one knee on his mattress. He’s careful not to jostle his backside, but he can’t resist slipping a hand back between his legs to trace the taut, feverish skin behind his balls.The curve of glass beneath his fingertips is body-warm, and Bitty shivers at the contrast of the hard and the soft feathers, toes curling as he looks his fill at the figure Jack cuts.

“Should I put this on now, or…?” Jack tosses the bottle of lube onto the bed and waves the condom packet between his pinched fingers stiffly.

Bitty could cry at his sweet, silly captain, but instead he puts him out of his misery. He clasps Jack’s wrist and reels him in, tugging him closer by the back of his neck until he’s close enough to smell the soda on Jack’s breath.

“Yes, sweetheart, I think we can skip the foreplay tonight,” Eric giggles, and as he swipes his tongue into the giving warmth of Jack’s mouth, he can feel the quick movements of the condom opening and unrolling along Jack’s shaft. He pulses up once, twice into the kiss, stretching his calves and his toes, and then he pulls back and bites his lip.

“Alright, Mr. Zimmermann. Are you ready to sleep with your very first puck bunny?”

“That’s really not a nice thing to call someone, Bits,” Jack chirps, delivery weaker than Annie’s sweet tea when Eric can see the possessive hunger that makes Jack’s pale eyes sharp enough to cut.

“Turn around, and let me have my fun,” he insists, and Jack grudgingly twists on his heel.

On all fours on top of his sheets, Bitty stretches forward, letting his muscles tug and burn with the strain for a second. Then, he pushes back up so he’s kneeling like a pinup and peeks at Jack over his shoulder.

“Go ahead and look now,” Bitty coos, and the instant Jack spins his eyes lock on the little white tuft nestled between his cheeks.

Novelty toys are surprisingly easy to find in Samwell, Massachusetts, and the _ Cottontail _ glass plug had called to Bitty the moment he’d spotted it on the shelf of Lardo’s favorite lingerie outlet.

He’d come back and bought it the next day, and he’s spent the week since practicing working it in, stretching himself until now even the widest part of the bulb goes in smooth and easy. He’s touched himself with it in, the plug too shallow to touch his prostate but adding a fullness and urgency masturbation never offered before. He’s timed himself keeping the plug in position before the sensory overload got to be too much, all in preparation of giving Jack this moment.

“That’s a — ”

“What, my tail?” Bitty asks, grinning.

“It’s a butt plug?” Jack says, inching closer until his knees collide with the edge of Eric’s bed.

“Well, I wanted to be ready in case the captain of the team decided to stop by,” he reaches behind himself for Jack’s hand and rests it on his hip. “I thought I’d get myself good and prepared; you won’t even have to lift a finger.”

Jack’s too far away to laugh at Bitty’s joke, but that’s probably for the best.

“Let me take it out,” Jack whispers, climbing behind Bitty and kissing along his spine.

“Of course. You can hardly fuck me if there’s something blocking your way.”

Jack trails his fingers down Bitty’s back urgently, but they’re deft from so many years of play that he doesn’t miss a beat. The lube Bitty used on the toy is only now starting to get tacky, so Jack slides it out without an effort. He tugs gently, the girth of the flared base catching Bitty’s rim and making him see stars. Eric nearly shouts when it comes loose; he’s left feeling empty and eager, anticipation setting his nerves aflame.

Cold trickles down the crack of his ass when Jack works more lube inside him. The callused tips of his fingers tease the edge of Bitty’s hole at every pass, and he falls forward onto his hands.

“Oh, Jack, come on. Baby, hurry up,” Bitty chants, his face pressed tight into his pillow.

“Bits,  _ fuck,  _ you’re amazing,” says Jack. His voice trembles, accent thicker on the vowels as he lines the lower halves of their body together. The denim of Jack’s pants scrapes maddeningly against Bitty’s hypersensitive skin, but soon he forgets all about that.

Jack places a hand on either of Eric’s glutes, spreading him open with his thumbs, and drives his hips forward until the head of his cock presses hotly against him. Bitty doesn’t so much as breathe while Jack guides his length inside, but he starts to shake when their thighs meet flush.

“ _ Ça va ? _ 2 You okay, Bitty?”

And if that isn’t the hottest thing.

“Jack, I’m perfect.”

They both gasp at the drag of Jack’s withdrawal, but Jack still manages to find the breath to add, “No argument from me.”

Eric feels so much more than he thinks his senses should be able to process. The sharp sting of Jack’s zipper that complements the heady fullness on every thrust, as hot as having his hair pulled; the damp heat of Jack’s breath where he rests his head between Bitty’s shoulder blades. He swears he can feel the ridges of Jack’s fingerprints and hear the love in his crescendoed panting.

Jack holds Eric’s hips tightly. His grip is gentle, but as he gets closer he starts to lose some of his control. Bitty hopes he’ll have a bruise or two to show for it tomorrow.

“Fuck, Bits, come on. Come on,” Jack grunts.

Bitty’s not sure if it’s just mindless repetition on Jack’s part or an actual request, but he’s so close it might not matter. 

He lays his forearms flat against the bed and angles his hips more sharply, chin tight against his chest and breath rapid. Using his arms for support, Eric rolls back in smooth circuits to match the beat of Jack’s thrusts. Every time Jack hits Bitty’s prostate with the tip of his dick, Bitty clenches and grinds back for an added second of contact before he lowers himself again, and every time he does it, Jack moans.

A fist closes around Bitty’s erection, slick with precome and sweat, and Jack’s left arm wraps like a lap bar around his waist.

With stimulation coming from all sides, Eric cries out and lets his whole body rock with the shudders of his orgasm. His knees seem weak enough to give out on him at any second, and Jack’s steady fist around his twitching dick doesn’t serve to help, but Bitty shakes on all fours and keeps it together while Jack hammers into him.

He’s lost all sense of rhythm, and he knows what’s coming when Jack spasms and tenses, falling forward until he and Bitty both collapse onto the bed.

There’s semen on his belly, but Eric isn’t sure he cares.

“You’re dangerous,” Jack finally gasps into the nape of Bitty’s neck, still half on top of him, softening cock still inside him.

“And I’m all yours,” adds Eric, trailing his ankle along Jack’s calf. Jack hums against Bitty’s sweaty skin, and Eric congratulates himself on a job well done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. What's this?  
> 2\. "Are you okay?"  
> 


	3. Jack Doesn’t Get Off Easy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompted by [mrsfreddykrueger](http://mrsfreddykrueger.tumblr.com/), betaed by [samsamtastic](http://samsamtastic.tumblr.com/), cheerled (?) and delta(??) read by [bicanthrope](http://bicanthrope.tumblr.com), friggin "written" or whatever the fuck by me but hey. every chain has its weak link, amirite?
> 
> vague, probably annoyingly ambiguous allusions or references to: _heathers, clueless, the great gatsby (2000), the great gatsby (2012),_ and _hamlet_

“Netflix and bake; be down in twenty,” Lardo raps on Bitty’s doorframe and pops her head in, but she’s gone before Bitty can think to ask what she’s talking about. He hears her repeat the warning to Jack while he saves the edits on his latest video and puts his laptop to sleep.

He’s trying to decide if he should change from new khaki shorts if he’s going to be busy in the kitchen when arms circle his middle and Jack nuzzles behind Bitty’s ear.

“It’s pretty rude that they’re just demanding pies now,” he grouses, rocking back on his heels into Jack’s arms.

A puff of air is his only clue that Jack is laughing at him, but Eric is smarter than he looks.

“It’s not like you’d say no,” Jack says, letting his mouth hang open at the end and sending damp breaths to unfurl against Bitty’s nape. “Besides, it’s not that kind of baking.”

Teeth close, pinching the skin of Eric’s neck between them, and he shivers when Jack sucks steadily. Jack fiddles with Bitty’s shirt, scraping against the grain of the fine hair on Eric’s chest as he works his fingers between the buttons. He rolls up onto his toes and grinds down Jack’s front to urge him on, because Jack has been trying to meet Bitty tit for tat, but it still feels like it takes three or four tits from Bitty to get a tat in return.

“I will shotgun the last forward to get his ass down here,” Lardo yells, and Jack groans and pulls away.

Bitty twists in his arms and nuzzles into his chest, whining, “No, wait,” but he knows just as well as Jack that they won’t be alone for much longer.

Jack looks far too satisfied with the way Bitty’s zipper won’t lie flat, and he doesn’t do himself any favors when he bends over and kisses Eric’s cupid’s bow for a lingering moment before pulling away.

He chuckles when he picks up one of his own textbooks to make it look like he’s been in Bitty’s room studying something other than the landscape of Eric’s body. Bitty bites his lip. He can be vindictive when he wants; he’ll let Jack think he’s won for now, balancing on the back two legs of Eric’s recording chair.

“Jack, Bits. What the fuck are you still doing up here?” Shitty asks, slamming the door open.

“Well, last one down gets to make out with Lardo, so — “ Jack keeps a straight face right up until Shitty tries to physically tip him out of the chair, and suddenly  _ American Law Review since 1875 _ is on the floor and Shitty is doing his best to lap dance Jack into submission.

Bitty rolls his eyes, folds his blanket over one arm, and heads downstairs. Jack had better not be the last forward down if he knows what’s good for him.

“Nonsmokers on the couch, Bits.” Lardo smiles serenely as she fills a hookah with tobacco and pot in a measure Bitty isn’t sure is judicious.

One of her canvas drop-cloths is on the floor, and she, Ransom, and Holster have made some kind of nest out of pillows and blankets. Shitty’s going to love it.

“I tried to help you out, Lardo, but Shitty still managed to pull up the rear,” Jack calls ahead of him, and Bitty sits cross-legged on the couch to watch him come into view from the stairs; bare shins first, gym shorts loose around the knees but stretched tight the further up they go, and then the rest of him in a t-shirt so worn thin that Bitty can see every inch he’s gotten to know over the past few months if he tries.

Lardo bites down on a grin and shrugs.

“Thanks for trying, dude. I think I’ll make it.

“You and Bitty are on the couch, by the way. Unless you wanna smoke?”

Jack doesn’t smoke, but he’s always invited because he’s a real adult. Bitty isn’t sure if he would smoke or not, but no one ever offers him any. There’s something about him that radiates,  _ my mother is a mama bear in tiny wrapping, and she will not hesitate to kill you _ . Lardo might hook him up if he asked, but for the moment he’s not interested. She’s good at reading people that way, just like she’s good at reading when Jack needs to be included for reassurance’s sake.

Eric catches his bottom lip in his teeth and peeks up at Jack, just in case. His nostrils flare just the tiniest bit when he notices, and he looks right back to Lardo.

“I’m good, thanks,” he says.

“If you’re nice, I’ll let you share my blanket,” Bitty chirps when Jack fans out and takes up two thirds of the couch himself.

Eric loves this. He loves the way he has to fold himself up and spread himself all along Jack’s body to make room. Jack was never so inconsiderate about taking up space before they were seeing each other, but now — now that Bitty looks at him with fire in his eyes every time Jack presses him into the corner of the couch or the edge of the booth in a diner — it happens with maddening frequency.

Lardo has the hookah lit and bubbling before Rans and Holster have finished figuring out how to hook up the TV to Holtzy’s laptop, and as much as Bitty thinks it’s a bad idea for them to be smoking and trying to set up the HDMI, it’s fun to watch Ransom’s shoulders unbunch as his high seeps in. The first ten minutes of his buzz are his most productive, Bitty’s always thought. Relaxed enough to power through the stuck-up gears of his overworked brain, but not so high as to be completely useless yet.

“That’s some dank shit, Lardo,” Holster coughs after he inhales too deeply, fiddling with the remote to get it onto the right input settings. She pats his back lightly and shrugs.

“I might not’ve cut it with as much tobacco as i usually do. One of your lungs probably weighs as much as my entire upper body.”

“So you thought you’d poison me to get a bigger cut of the weed?”

When Lardo grins around the mouthpiece, smoke leaks out from the corners of her mouth. Her eyes glimmer with mischief, and Eric considers warning Holster for a moment, but he’s busy spreading his comforter so it covers the way he’s attached to Jack from the hip down.

She climbs to her knees and still has to guide Holster’s chin down when she uses her fingers in the hollow of his cheeks to prop his mouth open and blows a stream of smoke in.

“Maybe, but I always share,” Lardo chuckles, voice rough from holding in the smoke so long. Holster blinks dreamily at her until Shitty shatters the ambiance.

“He’s not even a forward, you insidious goddamn liar!”

He’s put on a shirt to complement the Storm briefs he’d been wearing during his tussle with Jack, but there’s still too much of him on display when he goes for Lardo with a flying tackle.

“I never said I wouldn’t shotgun anyone  _ else _ ,” she screams, voice crackling as Shits spins them mid take-down to cushion her fall. He pins her upper arms tight against her sides and she wriggles half-heartedly, managing to work farther down into the pillow fort for her troubles.

“Yo, Shits —  _ Clueless  _ or  _ Heathers _ ?”

“Didn’t we just watch  _ Clueless _ ?”

Holster sighs, “No, bro. We marathoned the last season of friends. Paul Rudd’s early work really isn’t that hard to keep straight.”

Ransom snorts, abandoning the computer for the pipe.

“It’s hard for you to keep straight, dude.”

Holster’s glare should melt right through his glasses.

“I have  _ one  _ sexual awakening thanks to Bits and  _ all of the sudden  _ I’m gay for every marginally good-lucking guy I see, is that it?”

Ransom exhales steadily and doesn’t blink. “Holster. You popped a boner watching  _ The Great Gatsby _ .”

“Fuck you, Toby Stephens is hot,” Holster grumbles, grabbing the hose from Rans’s hands.

Bitty nudges Jack’s side and asks, “Did Holster just forget Paul Rudd was in  _ The Great Gatsby _ ?”

Jack frowns.

“Is Paul Rudd the one who was Spider-Man?” he asks, and Eric smothers his laugh with the top of his blanket before pulling Jack’s arm across his shoulders.

For a split second, Jack tenses, and Bitty knows he’s checking to see if the others are paying attention. They haven’t told the team they’re dating; less because Jack doesn’t trust them, and more because he doesn’t think it’s fair to put a secret that big on anyone else’s shoulders.

Bitty’s a little annoyed at how noble it is, but he’s not actually complaining. He trusts his teammates, too, but there’s no secret on earth that twenty-three boys and Lardo could keep among them until Jack’s ready to come out to the world. Some days he wants to wrap himself up in Jack on the porch and never move from the spot, but having him in secret is better than not having him at all.

Ransom and Holster are still fighting, though, and Shitty’s taken over Netflix duties, so only Lardo is unoccupied. Dangerous as that might be, she’s contentedly puffing away.

“Alright, brahs. Time for a cinematic classic:  _ Heathers _ .”

“Fuck, isn’t that the one where everyone dies?” Ransom asks, folding his legs under him and leaning back where Bitty’s legs would dangle if he didn’t have them pulled up onto the couch.

Holster narrows his eyes, whipping his head from Rans to Jack, but Jack doesn’t seem to care much for spoilers.

“You’re thinking of  _ Hamlet _ ,” says Lardo easily as the screen runs with the opening credits. Shitty turns the lights off for full effect before he settles in next to her. Bitty does them the courtesy of not blatantly watching when she straddles his hips and waggles her eyebrows on an inhale. There isn’t much motion when she hands the mouthpiece off to Holster and twines her fingers through Shitty’s flow, so Bitty isn’t sure it’s safe to look until he hears a racket of giggling.

Lardo’s curled back in Shits’s lap, head on his chest, and he’s arranging pillows into a mound to support his back. Holster shimmies over to Ransom’s side and passes him the hose, and once his head lolls onto Rans’s shoulder, the room settles down.  _ Que Sera Sera _ warbles and mingles with the smoky haze, and Bitty melts into Jack’s side.

“Oh, is this  _ Heathers _ ?” Jack asks just ask Bitty’s sliding his arm under the back of Jack’s shirt, fingertips trailing against the small of his back. He shuffles a little lower in the couch so there’s more room for Eric’s arm to rest between him and the cushions, and Bitty drags his nails from Jack’s spine to his tailbone in reward.

“No, this is  _ Veronicas _ . It’s a movie about how Shannen Doherty uses the power of Republican politics to save her high school from premarital sex.” Holster doesn’t turn away from the TV.

Jack shrugs and shimmies away from Bitty’s touch.

“I was never allowed to watch this at home,” Jack says, breath hitching when Eric’s hand cups his ass through his running shorts and squeezes. He gets an alarmed glare, but Jack’s arm stays around him, so Bitty isn’t deterred.

Shitty and Lardo’s heads nearly collide whipping to stare at Jack, and their concern shoots through Bitty like a bullet.

“No, not because of that,” Jack assures them. “I’m fine with the plot and everything.”

Holster slaps Jack’s knees and nearly sends Bitty flying when Jack flinches.

“Lisanne Falk is my mom’s friend. Makes the whole thing a little awkward, eh?”

“Who?”

Jack narrows his eyes and pulls his leg up to impede Eric’s progress back to Jack’s butt.

“Uh…” he pauses for a second before pointing uselessly with the hand slung on Bitty’s arm. “That one. The yellow Heather.”

“How in the hell — “ Ransom coughs.

“She was signed with my mom’s agency back before I was born.”

“Damn, Jack. Do you know, like, every famous person ever?” Holster asks.

Rans chuckles, “If he did, he’d probably know the difference between Taylor Swift and Taylor Lautner.”

“Good point, but.  _ Oh, shit. _ Jack, have you or have you not met Kevin Bacon?” Holster’s elbow digs into Bitty’s knee when he angles for a better look. Eric doesn’t snap, so much as gently steer them all back on track.

He kicks Holster in the armpit, and he says, “Movie now, third degree later.”

He ignores the shocked, disgruntled muttering at his feet and turns his face up to Jack’s quirked brow.

“If you’re upset about earlier, I — “ Jack whispers against the shell of Eric’s ear; Bitty shakes his head and dares a peck to Jack’s knuckles.

If Bitty’s going to get his way — and he’s  _ going _ to get his way — he has to choreograph everything just right. One misplaced elbow and he could crash into Jack’s lap halfway through or kick Ransom in the head without thinking. His chest presses warm against Jack’s side, and his left arm is snug around Jack’s hip, thumb tracing circles on the sliver of skin he’s managed to set free. Once he has his knees half under him and half extended toward the arm like a young Kate Winslet, he grips his blanket in his right hand and drags the top corner to Jack’s chin.

“Cold?” Jack murmurs, and Eric spares a kind thought for Alicia Zimmermann. She raised quite the baby boy.

“No, thanks,” Bitty sighs, and without letting go of the blanket he extends his thumb to the soft peak of Jack’s lips. The spit-slick skin drags as Bitty pulls him thumb down and opens Jack’s mouth for him. Broken streams of hot air sweep across his hand, but Jack doesn’t follow.

Dipping between Jack’s lips, Bitty’s head spins when teeth catch the pad of his thumb, and he kneels up to breathe, “Open up, sweetheart,” against Jack’s ear.

Jack’s jaw drops and Bitty feels the bones shift against his mouth. He lingers longer than is really safe, running his mouth against stubble until he’s safely secured the edge of his comforter between Jack’s teeth.

“Now, bite down,” he coos. He feels like a naughty dentist in a porno, only short a mask and the nubile dental hygienist who walks in halfway through, shocked but overwhelmed by curious lust all the same.

Eric reclines, suddenly reluctant; he’s not sure if he has the self control for this after all. When he’s far enough away to see the glassy, high sheen of Jack’s completely-sober eyes and the urgent way they track Bitty as he moves, he’s reassured.

Delicately, Bitty toys with Jack’s t-shirt, dragging it up and down the firm surface of Jack’s stomach and letting his knuckles brush against the quivering muscles with every pass. His left hand still strokes the feverish skin of Jack’s hip, but he enlists it too in the mission to ruck the fabric up to Jack’s chest. Bitty’s arms aren’t the longest in the world, but with some effort, he has Jack’s torso from his clavicles to his hip bones exposed — to Bitty’s hands if nothing else.

It’s as much a relief to Bitty as it must be to Jack when he lays his whole palm flat against Jack’s stomach. He trails a path from just below Jack’s belly button to the flat space over his heart, down along his ribcage and under the band of Jack’s bottoms.

Jack gasps, shuddering minutely, and Bitty stares carefully as Heather Chandler falls through a plate glass table without budging. Holster is having a serious discussion with Ransom about if he would rather fuck JD or Veronica, and Shitty and Lardo are mostly muttering between themselves except to play devil’s advocate when it seems like Holster’s about to make a decision.

No one’s noticed a thing, but that’s not to say they won’t.

He leans up, teases Jack’s earlobe with his teeth, and shushes him gently. With one more self-indulgent kiss to his cheek, Bitty sinks back down and flexes his fingers against the crux of Jack’s thigh.

His fashion sense is a nightmare for virtually any other purpose, but the elastic of Jack’s shorts means it’s easy as pie for Eric to stretch the waistband out with his forearm and slide out Jack’s dick and balls.

His palm fits comfortably curved around Jack’s balls, and Bitty puts a little more weight behind his grip until Jack’s thighs shake. He pulls back, but doesn’t let go. Instead, Eric slips his middle finger back between them and strokes evenly. With Jack’s pants still on, there’s nowhere far for him to go, but he presses against the beginning of the tight skin of Jack’s perineum diligently.

“Mmf,” Jack whines through a mouthful of fabric. Bitty’s hand stills, but Jack doesn’t move.

“All good, Jack?” Ransom tilts his head in their direction, but he doesn’t quite look away from the TV.

“Jack’s just getting a charley horse. Said we could skip checking practice this morning if I beat him in a race, and, well. He didn’t have much of a chance even without that kind of motivation.”

Shitty flails and starts to drag himself upright.

“I will massage that motherfucker into submission for you, my brother, just say the word — “

Jack doesn’t open his mouth, but he whines high in his throat in warning, and Eric is nearly dumbfounded.

“He’ll be fine, Shitty. Lardo’ll kick your ass if you move her anyway.”

She hums, “He’s got a point, bro.”

Shitty stares for another millisecond back at Bitty and Jack before he curls up like a cat back around Lardo.

Bitty feels wild with the knowledge that Jack is, for this moment, his. Jack could have spit out the blanket if worse came to worst, but instead he let Bitty take the reins and stay the course.

Despite his own flush, with such a close call, Bitty expects Jack to have gone soft from fear of being found out. When he tries to pull back, his wrist slips against a stream of precum along the side of Jack’s erection.

Jack’s hand is curled into a fist on his shoulder, and Eric nuzzles into Jack’s chest to ease some of his tension. Jack’s never been circumcised, and the fluid leaking from his slit is mostly contained by the lip where his foreskin pulls back. Eric wouldn’t believe it, and he can’t see to be sure, but when he rolls his open palm across the head of Jack’s dick, it feels like Jack’s dripping with precum. He coats the shaft, stroking thoroughly from root to tip, and every line of the body against Eric’s is tight.

“You didn’t come already, did you?” he murmurs, a touch concerned.

Nostrils flaring, jaw clenching, Jack squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head in an emphatic  _ no _ . Now that Bitty’s got the boy, he’s not sure these little shorts are the most prudent decision he’s ever made, and he rocks gingerly into Jack’s splayed thigh for some relief.

“I’ve got you, Jack,” he breathes as he presses too close into Jack for any kind of plausible deniability.

He slicks Jack’s erection with a thorough hand and closes his fingers around the hot width of it. Jack is taut against him, sitting rigid like the top of a good creme brulee, and Bitty is desperate for the satisfaction of the crack.

His hand works in rhythmic pulls, working the entire length until Jack’s closer, and he rests on his haunches to steady himself. Eric’s left hand has been mostly idle against the curve of Jack’s hipbone, but now he wants to push the envelope.

Shannen Doherty is being a bitch and Christian Slater is being horrific, but that’s all Bitty processes as he sucks his first two fingers into his mouth. It’s not meant to be a show, so as soon as they’re wet, he parts his lips and feels for Jack’s ass.

It’s not a good angle from this direction either, but Bitty’s able to probe between Jack’s cheeks and massage the tight circle of muscle with tiny motions he times with twists of his right hand.

Eric turns back to watch when Jack shudders and cants his hips into Bitty’s hand. His hair sticks in tufts to his forehead, and his brow is furrowed in a kind of exquisite agony that makes Bitty wish he were a visual artist like Jack or Lardo.

He tightens his fist and concentrates on the upper half of Jack’s cock, tugging the foreskin with his thumb and getting his hand slicker every few pumps. Jack’s asshole flutters against Bitty’s fingers, and he presses a little further in when the resistance lets up. He can only manage up to his first knuckle, but Jack doesn’t seem to care

When Jack is ready, Eric hears the change in his breathing. It slips into shallow panting that a dedicated athlete like Jack Zimmermann would never otherwise permit of himself, and it rattles through his chest.

Bitty wants to kiss Jack. He wants to dive under his blanket and swallow him down to the root. He wants to murmur a steady stream of filth into Jack’s ear while Jack falls apart.

Instead, he begs Jack to open his eyes without saying a word and peers up at him from under his lashes.

Jack’s eyes are so dark, pupils so blown he looks almost like his father. He holds Bitty’s gaze while his dick jerks in Bitty’s grip and spurts against the quilted cotton that’s (frankly) seen worse since Eric and Jack started fucking.

He stares blankly at Bitty’s face as he rubs Jack’s back in soft circles, and he doesn’t blink as Bitty tucks him back into his pants.

If Jack’s arm weren’t still around him, fist unfurled and draped against the ball of Bitty’s shoulder, he’d worry he broke his boyfriend.

“I’m going to bed,” Jack mumbles.

“Whuzzat?” Rans startles from half a nap.

Untangling from Bitty, Jack sits up and snatches the blanket to ball in his lap. Which is fair, since Bitty didn’t really want to use their glorified cum tissue to keep warm tonight, but he’s still hard himself. He feels a mite exposed.

“My muscle’s bothering me. Think I should lie down,” Jack says, like a robot.

Shitty perks up.

“Massage offer still stands.”

“No. Really, no.”

Jack wobbles when he tries to stand.

“I’m just — “ he mutters when four pairs of eyes boggle at him. “I’m just going to take this blanket with me.”

Eric buries his face in his hands.

“Okay, dude. That’s great.” Lardo frowns at him.

“Yeah. It’s cold in my room. So. I’m taking this,” says Jack, shuffling toward the stairs.

It would be a boon to their relationship if their telepathy existed outside of when they were having sex, because inside, Bitty’s screaming,  _ Shut up! Shut up and don’t say anything! Just go upstairs and be normal, you beautiful, malfunctioning hockey robot! _

“ _ You’re _ cold?” Ransom asks.

“Well, heat is good for muscle injuries. Alright.” Jack glances fleetingly at Bitty and spins on his heel. “Great movie, Shits.”

“It’s not fuckin’ over, you Philistine!”

Holster waits until a door closes upstairs before righting himself and pulling his wallet out of his back pocket.

“I’ve got five bucks that says he popped a boner. Takers?”

Bitty yelps, “Excuse me?”

Ransom nods sagely.

“I bet it was Heather McNamara. I’d freak out if I got it up for one of my mom’s friends.”

Shitty and Lardo are suspiciously quiet, but Bitty can’t deal with them while he’s doing damage control.

“Jack’s mom is a model; he has to be used to her having beautiful friends by now,” he says.

Whatever rebuttal the boys frame up, Bitty doesn’t catch it.

His phone pulses in his pocket, and he unlocks it to read the incoming text from Jack.

_ Come up to your room. I need to touch you. _

Bitty’s halfway up the stairs when his phone buzzes again.

_ After I suck you off, I need you to tell me how the movie ends. _


	4. Jack vs. the 21st Century

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> couldn't decide if this chapter title is a bastardization of 'phil of the future; 22nd century man' or 'scott pilgrim vs. the world.' perhaps it is both, maybe it is neither, the cat is both dead and alive until it is observed to be one or the other, etc.
> 
> i needed a _team_ of betas to get me through this nightmare of my own writer's block, so thanks to: [bicanthrope](http://bicanthrope.tumblr.com), [jaradel](http://jaradel.tumblr.com), and [elizajane](http://archiveofourown.org/users/elizajane). i'm just so darn thankful for you guys <3
> 
> if u came here looking for these boys to touch each other. well. i guess you're not really in the wrong place, but damn if i didn't make it hard for us all in the process.
> 
> references to real people. they are not characters. they just happen to exist irl and happen to be mentioned in passing.

The second week of March, Coach Murray has the team over for a dinner to celebrate making it to the playoffs. There’s a business casual dress code, which means the day of, Bitty has two freshmen boys in khakis parading through the living room while Nursey watches in all his prep school glory. Chowder is too small to borrow anyone’s jacket except Shitty’s, but only one of Shits’s smells clean enough to venture into a University employee’s home. He’s too lanky by a mile for Bitty’s, so they settle on a cream button-down with a J. Crew cuff roll and a tie pilfered from Jack.

Dex is a little easier to dress, and Jack’s polo sweater that his mother sent down with him after break looks nice, even if it’s a little loose across the chest and the shoulders. It’s still creased from the manufacturer, and Bitty’s sure he’d have fainted by now if Jack had worn it before anyway. They’re probably safe.

After Chowder’s ensemble at Lardo’s show, Bitty can’t leave anything to chance here.

“Bits, is my red tie still in with— “

Jack’s voice resonates ahead of him in the stairwell, and he projects to be heard over the thud of his footsteps coming down into the hall.

“Yes, Jack, it  _ was  _ still in the dryer,” Eric calls quickly. He thought he’d mentioned the frogs were coming over before dinner, but Jack never calls him anything but Bittle in front of the boys if he can help it. Bitty thinks a nickname would make it look like Jack’s finally ready to accept him as part of the team. Jack thinks calling him “Bitty” would be as obvious a tell as tattooing  _ Property of Eric Bittle _ above his dick.

If Jack’s let his guard down far enough that he’s calling for  _ Bits _ , there’s no real way to tell where his question would have gone.  _ Is my red tie still in with your sex toys?  _ doesn’t seem like the ideal way to let everyone in on the secret of their relationship.

“Chowder doesn’t own a tie,” he sighs, tugging the knot a little looser when he sees Chowder fiddling with his collar. It doesn’t look as nice, but the last thing they need is a medical emergency brought on by a dress code.

Jack stumbles at the foot of the stairs, tucking the front tails of his white shirt under the panels of his open cotton slacks. Eric glimpses heather gray briefs before he forces himself to look somewhere more fitting for polite company.

Staring between Bitty and Chowder, Jack asks, “You lent him my  _ red _ tie?”

“Did you want to wear it tonight, Jack? I don’t need a tie! Oh, or I’m sure I could pull a cord from a hoodie and tie it like—”

“You will not!” Bitty snaps. “Jack, you never wear this tie. I didn’t think you’d mind.”

Jack widens his eyes incredulously at Eric, and it seems like he might put up a fight. Something like  _ I don’t want to look at Chowder and think about your bedpost _ , but Jack is just going to have to make some sacrifices for the greater good. Bitty digs his heels in, pout already starting, when Jack’s gaze snaps to Dex.

“Bittle! Are you giving all my clothes away?”

Dex freezes and looks to Nursey out of the corner of his eye.

“And what? Is Nurse wearing one of my jocks?”

“Dude,” Nursey protests, but Bitty cuts him off with an urgent hand drawn across his own neck.

“Jack, sweetheart, you haven’t even worn that sweater before. Can you please just let these boys pretend they’re presentable? For Coach Murray’s sake, if nothing else?”

It’s a little ridiculous that a grown man is throwing half a fit with his pants still hanging open, and when Bitty’s eyes go soft in amusement, Jack settles a little. He rubs his ruddy face with his hands, at least, and smoothes his hair back into the slick style Bitty loves.

“Did you just call me sweetheart?” His voice trickles over forced laughter, and he’s scratching the back of his neck with one hand while he knocks Bitty’s shoulder with the other. “Didn’t know you cared, man.”

With as much skill as a neat pass to clear the defensive zone, Jack dodges another close call. He lets out all the air in his lungs in a single gust. Even though Eric is probably beet red, tension ekes out of him, too.

“Don’t underestimate the power of sarcasm, Mr. Zimmermann,” Bitty says. “Tommy Muller at summer camp got a ‘sweetheart,’ too, and I had to clean his puke out of a pool filter.”

“Does letting the frogs wear my clothes make me better than Tommy Muller?” Jack razzes him, a real smile playing on his lips.

The crisis borne of nearly spilling the beans to the frogs successfully navigated, his mood has passed.

“It’ll take a lot more than that to make up for scaring them,” Bitty tutts, and with gentle hands, he spins Jack in place and shoves him back up the stairs. “Your blue striped tie looks better with those pants anyway.”

“What the hell?” Dex mutters after Jack’s retreating figure.

“Don’t worry about him. He won’t have an excuse to be cranky much longer with the playoffs starting next week.”

“He needs an  _ excuse _ to be cranky?” Chowder bleats. Bitty silences him with a fierce look and decides to tighten the tie back up after all. He’s CPR certified if the need arises.

Lardo takes care of the larger infants of the Haus, towing Ransom and Holster down each by the shell of his ear. They’re bent nearly in half trying to follow her; Bitty wonders idly how she managed to catch not only one of them, but how she nabbed the other without losing her other prize. He’ll have to ask her to teach him the move sometime.

Dex, when he has the wardrobe for it, can dress well enough, but Bitty has only looked away from Chowder long enough to make sure Holster’s wearing closed-toed shoes, and when he looks back, one of Chowder’s cuffed sleeves is completely undone.

He glares at Nursey as he fixes it, saying, “From now on, this is your job.”

Nurse’s palms go up in concession and his eyebrows lift, and Bitty must be a little snippier than he thinks if Dex is squaring up, an arm brushing Nursey’s shoulder.

“Jack! Shits! Save yourselves!” Ransom yells, twisting out of Lardo’s pinching fingers.

Lardo curses and sprints up the stairs, “Fuck you, Rans, he’s probably halfway out the window by now.”

Bitty uses the time marked by ominous rattles and thuds from the second floor to put the last touches on the pies he’s made to bring over to the Murrays’. After last year, when he’d shown up with a dolly loaded with _the exact right number of pies to feed a hockey team, thank you_ , Mrs. Murray had made him promise to come empty handed. His mother raised him better, of course, but bringing only two pies is probably an acceptable compromise.

“Any pecans in either of those, Bittle?”

“They’ll be paying you mostly to play, right? The speaking is really just superfluous, isn’t it?”

“I’ll have Shitty double check for that before I sign anything,” says Jack with a considering hum. He looks smart as a movie star, and Bitty is consumed with thoughts of how easy it would be to reel him in by that navy blue tie, with its diagonal stripe the same ice blue as Jack’s eyes, and kiss him senseless.

It’s much harder to play the blasé, unaffected Hausmate, but he tries with a, “That’s a good boy,” and an automatic smile to see the outrageous, splotchy red rise up from Jack’s collar.

“And don’t forget to put your ringer on vibrate tonight — you never do, and if you interrupt dinner with a hundred of those chime notifications, Mrs. Murray will never forgive you.”

Even as Jack complies, he eyes Eric shiftily.

”When have I ever gotten that many texts, Bittle?”

The other room is still raucous, so Eric waits until Jack’s phone is away to hand him a pie. Jack probably thinks the way he strokes Bitty’s wrist with a thumb is sly, but, bless him, he’s learning.

Bitty closes his fist around Jack’s first two fingers, letting the flat of his thumb massage little circles into the callus of Jack’s palm. He blows Jack a quick kiss as he drags his grip from the fingers’ base down their length. The tips of them slip out of the ring of Eric’s fingers, and Jack glowers at his own hand like it’s betrayed him.

“You’ll do it because I asked, honey. Now let’s round up the troops.”

Bitty bites his lip at the telltale shuffle of a man trying to hide a semi with his dignity intact. He has learned so much in the past seven months about what makes Jack Zimmermann tick, and he is going to put every lesson to good use tonight. The regular season frazzles Jack’s nerves something fierce; it’s good for their friendship and for their relationship that he didn’t treat Bitty with the same frostiness of last year. Jack has been fiercely determined to live up to his C and get the team to the playoffs. Eric worried for a stretch there that the poor thing would break.

He deserves a reward for the balancing act of contract negotiations, thesis writing, and leading the boys this far. And Bitty deserves a reward for months of distracted kisses and cuddles cut short at five in the morning for checking practice. There’s only so much time before the fevered excitement of the playoffs, and Eric plans to set a much different tone for this half of the season, starting tonight.

A distracted fog hangs over them while they walk en masse to the neighborhood where most of the Samwell staff live — its cobbled walkways and brick-faced row homes belying the sort of casual luxury on the inside that makes Dex squirm and makes Bitty think of his mother’s idea board on Pinterest. 

Nursey has his hand on Dex’s shoulder blade, fingers drumming unthinkingly, and it does seem to leech away some of the stiffness of Dex’s shoulders. Ransom and Holster flank Bitty on either side — when they’re not leering at his banana cream pie, they stare at the casual contact between Nurse and Dex with as much bafflement as Bitty.

Ahead, there’s Jack and Lardo, talking logistics about roommates on roadies, probably. If Jack’s shifty eyes and petrified face are any kind of tell, he’s getting to the part about bunking up with Bitty. If it weren’t for Lardo’s dedication to swatting Shits’s hands from the platter Jack is all but ignoring in his grip, she’d have called him out by now.

“Allow me to get the door for you, my good man,” Holster says, sprinting ahead of Jack and Shitty at the Murray’s front door to hold it open. He waggles his eyebrows at Bitty and Ransom, gaze darting from the pies in succession and back to Eric so hopefully Bitty can practically see his tail wagging.

“No fucking fair, Holtz. Didn’t even hold it for the right person,” Ransom grumbles under his breath. After Dex and Nursey shuffle in, Rans shoulders Holster out of place at the door. Holster stumbles into Chowder, who’s too distracted fiddling with the knot of his tie to dodge the incoming defenseman and grabs Nursey’s sleeve for balance.

Derek snatches his hand back, and time slows down while Bitty watches his elbow clip the pie plate he should’ve thought to protect better. Bitty’s fingers close over emptiness while his culinary efforts splatter onto the doorstep and his brown oxfords.

“Y’all know it’s the host’s job to serve, right?” he grits out, his metered voice soft, but resonant in the postapiecalyptic silence. “It was never gonna be up to me who got first dibs. You  _ know that _ ,  _ right? _ ”

“Uh — “ Ransom shepherds him around the remains of his banana cream without actually touching Bitty, and Holster uses his hands and the cardboard platter to do damage control.

Bitty makes a beeline for Jack in the Murray’s den, startling him with his ferocity, but Eric has to see for himself that his bourbon peach pie is still intact. If it were anyone but Jack, he’d have snatched it right from them to safeguard it himself. He trusts Jack and his hands more than his own, though, so he relaxes. Well, he relaxes except for the mulish cold shoulder he gives Ransom.

Mrs. Murray is a sweetheart, even though she pretends to give Bitty a hard time for having come with his hands full. She eyeballs Holster when he asks to use the kitchen sink to wash the whipped cream off of his hands. As he runs off with his tail between his legs, Eric explains how her front door became the scene of a minor crime. 

Coach Murray’s wife grew up in Tennessee, and when she gives Holster the first slice, the one that inevitably falls apart on the plate if it even makes it out in once piece, Bitty recognizes it for the act of solidarity it is. When she gets to the last slice and Nursey and Ransom still haven’t been served, she cuts it into halves and grins in a saccharine dare for either of them to complain.

It’s a beautiful sight. It ends the dinner on such a nice note that Bitty pushes his evening’s agenda forward an hour or two and slips his phone into the palm of his hand. He’d planned to wait until they all moved into the den, sitting haphazardly on the floor or whatever flat surface was clear, but while Coach and his wife clear the table and Nursey snakes the last bite of Dex’s pie, Bitty decides to get a move on.

_ You look so handsome tonight. I love when you loosen your tie and undo the top button of your shirt like that. It makes me wanna leave love bites all under your collar. _

A sharp ping disrupts Jack as he tells Chowder a story about the last time he and his dad played shinny with his Uncle Mario and someone named Sid whose last name, for the sake of Bitty’s sanity, is probably not Crosby. Bitty catches Jack’s eye and shakes his head.

“What did I tell you? Phone on vibrate,” Bitty chides. “What’d you do when I reminded you the first time?”

Jack’s eyes narrow, flickering down suspiciously to the screen of his phone before settling vacantly on Bitty’s smirk.

“The volume won’t go any lower,” he grumbles.

Chowder grabs Jack’s phone before either Jack or Bitty can do more than hold their breath, but he doesn’t even look at the screen.

“The switch on the side is what puts it on vibrate.”

_ I should have realized _ , Jack sends Bitty’s way once his hands are safely wrapped around his phone with the screen tilted covertly down toward his lap. He looks like a preteen texting in detention, and only the food coma and lingering sense of shame at having ruined dessert keep Ransom and Holster at bay.

_ wasn’t being real subtle, was I? _

The vibrations rattle against the table for only a second. Jack snatches his phone up, glances at his new message, and drains the wine glass in front of him. His cheeks burn with a diffused glow the same color as the red clinging to the sides of the glass, running up to his temples and down under his chin.

_ that was only your second glass, wasn’t it? _

_ Yes, why? _

_ if anyone else asks, it was your fourth. you’re rosier than chowder right now. _

Jack doesn’t get the chance to reply right away. He wastes too much time challenging Bitty with a smirk and an inquisitively arched brow until the Murrays shoo them all into the den. If it's anything like last year, they'll spend the next hour or so drinking while some of the boys on the third and fourth lines remind Coach that they exist off of the bench. After that, they can make their excuses, and Bitty can put Jack’s slack tie to better use than it’s serving now looped around his neck.

_ It’s your fault if I’m red at all,  _ Jack messages. Eric stifles the chuckle rising from his throat—he turns it into a convincing enough cough that Shitty slaps between his shoulder blades until Jack’s snickering catches his attention.

“You’re pretty fuckin’ blasé about losing a liney right before playoffs,” Shits accuses. Bitty ducks away from him, letting Shitty’s truly inspirational defense of camaraderie and brotherhood distract the room while he composes another text.

_ I’m damn proud of it. I love to see you turn all different colors for me. I love when your lips turn white from how hard you bite them while I’m sucking on your nipples. _

Jack stops arguing with Shitty mid-sentence.

_ I love the mauves and purples your skin turns after I bite hard enough to bruise. _

“Easiest argument I ever won,” Shitty crows. He smacks Eric on the back and adds, “I should settle more debates without resorting to my — admittedly beauty — sleeper hold.”

Lardo hooks her elbow around Shitty’s neck and hauls him to the floor to prove a point.

_ I wanna see your cheeks crimson and warm right now. I want to crawl on your lap in front of everyone and grind down on you until you come. _

“I’m not about to try to break this up,” says Bitty. Somehow, while Eric was distracted, Holster got pulled into the scrap; it's not clear if he's trying to stop it or if he's a fully-fledged combatant. Either way, Lardo is kicking his ass. Her elbow has him pinned at the small of his back to the floor, and Shitty’s sprawled under Holster belly-up.

_ Tell me more. _

The prickle of Jack’s gaze would be enough for Bitty to know he has Jack’s attention, but the text is a nice touch. He can imagine Jack’s breathy voice demanding it against the shell of Bitty’s ear with no effort at all. His clipped consonants barely separate one puff of air from the next when he talks low and quiet in bed.

_ Everyone’s so busy right now I bet they’d hardly notice if I straddled you in that armchair. _

_ Are you sure there’s enough room? My legs take up a lot of space. _

_ Sweetheart, every inch of your quads is prime real estate. You’d just have to hold tight to keep me from slipping off. _

_ Hold you where? _

Abruptly, Jack pushes out of his seat. He skirts around Shitty’s hand, which grabs desperately at his ankle for deliverance, and crosses the room.

“Refill, Bittle?”

He picks Bitty’s glass up by the stem, but he dawdles waiting for an answer. In a subtle roll, Jack rocks onto the balls of his feet; his hips park at eye level where Eric doesn’t have to move a muscle to appreciate the the swell of a blunt cock outlined in fabric. Sometimes Bitty gets a little foggy when he realizes he’s the one who draws this response from Jack, and he’s the one who gets to look his fill when Jack preens.

Then, he decides not to question fortune and smiles serenely up, past the distractions of Jack’s hips and belly and chest up to the chiseled edges of his jaw. It stretches with a gentle, teasing smile after a second, and Bitty lets his glass leave his hands without a word of protest.

_ Hurry back, sweetheart. I wanna see your face while I tell you all about where I want you to hold me.  _ He doesn’t miss a beat sending the text once Jack is out of sight.

“You really think I might get drafted?” Chowder asks, dazzled by Coach Murray’s heavy praise.

“It’s a possibility. You’re young enough, and there aren’t a lot of freshmen goalies in the playoffs. Nevermind you’re not even our backup.”

“Oh, but — ” Chowder frowns. Eric is ready to abandon his whole escapade at the drop of a hat to fix whatever just went wrong. He’s a worse worrier than his own mother as far as his son, Christopher Chow, is concerned.

It’s not the first anyone has mentioned the entry draft to Chowder, but it might be the first time a coach has. “I want to get my degree.”

Relief floods all the empty spaces left by his worry’s retreat. If the only thing bothering Chowder is the possibility of choosing between a degree and the NHL entry draft, things are going pretty damn smoothly. He trusts Coach Murray to handle the situation, and Eric is more than glad to leave this moment for the two of them. Chowder will tell Bitty soon enough, he’s sure, and hopefully Bitty will manage to get off in the meantime.

“Here,” Jack passes him a half-full glass of something red and sweet over Eric’s shoulder. There’s not a better word for what’s happening with the fabric of Jack’s pants than “tenting,” but a quick look around the lounge tells him everyone is absorbed in what they’re doing. In fact, while he watches Jack struggle to sit down, he realizes Nursey isn’t in the room at all.

_ You’re a little obvious in those pants. _

_ Sorry,  _ Jack looks across at him, face burning up when he catches Bitty staring.  _ Someone keeps looking at me every time I try to get rid of it. _

_ Oh? Someone’s looking at you, huh? _

“Holster, is that a dildo in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?” Shitty sounds alarmingly placid about the situation.

Holster makes a faint noise of distress. He holds his hand out, grasping at air in Ransom’s direction.

“Damn, Shits. Looks like he really needs to work on his stick control.”

“Sick, Lardo.” Ransom laughs over by the hearth with his arms crossed. He isn’t making any special effort to help.

_ I don’t know how I feel about that. How exactly are they looking?  _ Bitty doesn’t take his eyes off of the bedlam, but he isn’t really seeing the choreography of Holster trying to crush Shitty with the sole aid of his own body weight.

_ Bits _

_ Hmm?  _

Jack is nibbling at his bottom lip, irritating the chapped skin. Eric has lost the battle of getting him to use chapstick, but he’s won that war through sharing his own with Jack. Mouth-to-mouth is really the best way to put on lip balm. 

_ I want you to tell me, not show me _ , Bitty adds.

_ You’re looking at me like you’re about to drag me upstairs by my tie. _

He’d never do that with Jack’s good tie. That’s why the red tie is their go-to for playing rough.

_ Is that why you wanted to wear your red one tonight? You wanted me to have to look at you thinking about all the different places in my room you’ve been tied up? _

Jack gasps wet, the drag of air fading into thick, shocked coughs. No one else pays attention to their captain meeting his untimely end by choking on his own spit. Not even Dex, whose nose is buried in his phone and who’s still fighting tooth and nail for dibs, blinks.

It’s up to Bitty, obviously, to perch on the arm of the Murrays’ recliner and pat Jack soundly between the shoulder blades until he relaxes under Eric’s palms. Once he’s there, it’s not odd at all to stay in his new seat. It’s not like he’s burying his face into the carpet while three of his teammates tug at his arms.

“Leave me to die,” Holster groans.

“Dude, if we left everyone who ever got turned on thinking about Shitty to die we wouldn’t have a manag —  _ ow! Fuck,  _ Lards!”

Eric will let Shitty pry Lardo’s pinching fingers away from Ransom’s skin. He types instead,  _ It’s cute you think I’d make it all the way upstairs. _

_ Bitty, come on.  _ Jack shuffles next to him, sitting forward with his elbows on his knees. It obstructs Bitty’s view, but it does cast Jack’s hardness in a passable amount of shadow. Only Dex was sitting close enough to make out any detail, but he left at some point during Lardo’s offensive.

_ It’s always business with you, isn’t it?  _ Bitty runs his knuckle along Jack’s forearm. He mutters, “Sorry,” for plausible deniability. It’s a casual apology for an accidental touch if anyone asks.

_ I was in the middle of telling you that I want you to grab my ass and manhandle me down into your lap.  _

Jack rolls his head back, giving Eric a better view of his blue eyes, set off sharply by the blood in his cheeks. Bitty keeps pressing, his own stomach fluttering at the hungry energy rolling off of every rigid inch of Jack. If he isn’t careful, his khakis won’t be doing him any more favors than Jack’s pants are doing at camouflaging his erection.

He isn’t so turned on yet that he’s desperate, and his focus on coolly driving Jack crazy is grounding in its own way. Still, crossing his ankle over his knee isn’t the worst idea Bitty has ever had.

_ Think we could get away with pulling my pants down? I love it when you sneak your thumbs under the legs of my shorts. _

_ You do? _

_ Are you kidding?  _ Bitty isn’t sure what fondness looks like when it bursts through the lust that must cloud his features, but it makes Jack turn in toward him. 

_ Your hands are perfect, Jack. I go crazy when you’re rubbing those little circles on my hips. It pushes up all the fabric so your hands are right against the curve of my behind.  _ And when Jack slides his hands toward each other, and his fingertips start to dig into skin and pull, Bitty could just about die.

_ We’d probably get caught doing that,  _ Jack writes back. He stares off to Bitty’s side into space, and Eric would bet he thinks he’s being nonchalant.

_ Hmm, but it got you thinking, didn’t it? _

And there, Jack meets his eye again. Eric grins.

_ Maybe clothes on is a good idea. It wouldn’t be the first pair of boxers you’ve gone through thanks to me, would it? ;) _

_ So what?  _ Jack writes quicker than Bitty’s ever seen. Still slower than anyone else younger than thirty, but coupled with the affronted huff Jack let out when he read Eric’s text, it nudges Bitty from a coy smile to soft giggles.  _ You’d dry hump me in front of the whole team? _

_ Not the whole team! Dex and Nursey aren’t here.  _ He’ll be sure to ask Mrs. Murray later if they said so long before leaving. If not, there’ll be hell to pay, but Eric has other priorities for the present.

_ That’s concerning _

_ I want it, Jack,  _ he texts. He’s about through with teasing by now. Eric is closer than comfortable to bucking up into empty air with impatience.  _ I wanna feel you slouch low in the seat until your dick is right under me. I could put my hands on the back of the chair and lean over you the way you always hover over me. _

Jack drops his phone to the floor where its landing is muffled by a high pile carpet. He goes to pick it up slowly, eyes scanning the room like a fugitive for anyone not engrossed in discussions of college athletics or the pros and cons of corporal punishment. Then, he snaps back upright and guides the throw pillow his elbow has pinned to the other arm of the lounge down across his legs.

_ Looks like you like that idea. _

_ I’m a history major. Your constitution says I don’t have to answer that question. _

_ Didn’t ask a question, did I? _

Bitty dips into his own vault of fantasies now, the ones he started to build up over a year ago that he still hasn’t worked completely through.

_ I would love to press down into your lap. You never feel like you’re close enough even when you’re inside me, so hell, can you imagine? I’d be crazy trying to grind above you. I wouldn’t ever pull back, really. Just keep rocking in harder and closer. _

_ Bitty, god. Please. _

Jack gives up on pretense and falls back into the chair. He presses the heel of one hand down against the stiff peak of his erection. The other hand makes a laughable effort to prop the throw pillow up like a barrier, but anyone who saw the way Jack is gazing at Bitty with heavy lids and flared nostrils would have to be oblivious not to realize he was seconds away from the edge.

_ Would you just sit there while I do all the hard work? You can, but wouldn’t you wanna untuck my shirt and put your hands on my back? _

Bitty, for one, wants nothing more than to have Jack hold him for no reason but to hold him. Touch isn’t something foreign to any athlete, but aimless touch is so new to Jack. Eric might be the one of them more recently out of the closet, but Jack was never with anyone where he could take his time before. Their moments together are stolen, sure, but there isn’t an expiration date for them the way their had been for Jack’s other relationships. Eric shivers with memories of fingertips tracing his skin instead of dragging him in one direction or the other.

_ Of course I would.  _ Eric reads it over Jack’s shoulder while he taps it out, but he waits until it’s sent to write back. He’d like to have this on his phone for safe keeping.

_ Good, I’m glad :)  _

Then,  _ I’d be biting my lips the whole time, honey. It would be so hard to be that close and not kiss you.  _ He can barely see the slopes of Jack’s cheeks under sad, heavy eyes from a distance without the urge to drop what he’s doing and throw himself up into a kiss.

_ I haven’t ever had sex in someone else’s bathroom,  _ Jack texts back.

Nonplussed, Bitty replies,  _ Now we both know that’s not true _ , and puzzles. He starts to get an inkling of what Jack meant when there’s a tug on the cotton of his shirt. Jack traces hot paths over the skin of Eric’s waist, pins and needles persist in the wake of the drag of Jack’s bitten-down nails.

_ Locker rooms don’t count, Bittle. _

He hadn’t noticed Jack responding. He almost can’t believe Jack had the wherewithal to text, let alone with one hand.

_ I’ll meet you upstairs when I finish my drink. _

He bolts for the kitchen, hopeful that the best way to avoid notice is to get out of the den as fast as he can. Mrs. Murray, thank the lord, is elbows-deep in dish suds when he ducks into the fridge. All that’s left are cans of Coke, so Bitty pops one open and drains it. The cold feels good going down, and it settles some of the fire in his gut. He thinks he could even get up to Jack without taking the stairs in a full sprint.

_ Bits don’t come up here. _

He’s already on the second floor when the text comes through. Jack waits in the hall, jaw hanging loose and slack, staring past the open bathroom door.

“What, you need an invitation?” Bitty’s laugh comes without any support, breath breaking off quickly, leaving them in awkward silence. When Eric walks close enough to peer into the room, he doesn’t blame Jack for falling speechless.

He might even be hallucinating himself, because Nursey and Dex scrambling to pull their clothes back in order is a hard scene to process. Dex’s hair is a wild snarl, and a deep brown hickey decorates the cord of Nursey’s neck. And no matter how hard he tries, Bitty can’t see a third person anywhere who might be responsible for their states. It’s almost as if they did it to each other, but that couldn’t possibly —

“You’ll uh… You’ll let us tell everyone else ourselves, right?” Nursey clears his throat. He pretends to adjust his haphazard half-windsor knot, but it’s the most transparent excuse not to look Jack or Eric in the eye that Bitty has ever seen.

Jack’s teeth click when his jaw snaps shut. While Bitty’s still collecting his thoughts, Jack nods firmly.

“We won’t tell anyone if you don’t want them to know.”

Bitty has just about enough wherewithal to make like a bobblehead and back up Jack’s promise.

“No, I think, uh — “ Dex’s eyes flit over to Nursey, and he goes beet red at the sight of Nursey’s smile. If that isn’t the sweetest thing Bitty’s ever seen, he’s not sure what is. “I think it’ll be good if everyone knows.”

“You go on and do what you gotta,” Eric says. “Now get outta here so I can pee.”

Lord help him, his frogs clasp hands. Nursey winks and tows his boyfriend (Bitty’s thoughts falter over the word) back down to the dregs of the party.

“So,” Bitty comments, cocking his head. “They’re gonna be pretty busy down there for a while.”

“What — ” the uproar from the floor below cuts Jack off; the loudest voice among them Holster, booming,  _ we are the twenty-five percent. _

“Didn’t I make a few promises regarding this bathroom?”

Jack boggles at him, but even with huge eyes, he doesn’t waste any time leaning into Bitty’s caress to his cheek.

“You’re not serious,” Jack gasps, and his lips drag against Bitty’s thumb.

“All the cool kids are doing it,” Eric replies, voice smooth as silk. “I got myself all worked up earlier. I can’t stop thinking about riding you like a mechanical bull.”

“Is that a robot joke?”

Jack ducks down, whispering hot words against Bitty’s ear. It sets his spine tingling, and Eric has his fingers tucked under Jack’s belt, yanking and pulling back into the restroom as teeth close down on his earlobe.

“Just get in here and help me get these damn pants off. It’s been almost twelve hours since I got to see that butt of yours.”

“Whatever you say, Bitty.”


	5. Faceoff Etiquette

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we are SO ALMOST THERE IT'S UNREAL
> 
> beta love @ [fie](http://kantperson.tumblr.com) and [jaradel](http://jaradel.tumblr.com)

Recovery from Spring C is slow-going, Sunday lost entirely to misery and to scrutinizing his tweets for anything incriminating beyond standard drunken nonsense. He feels almost human in the stolen blocks of time where Jack — the only one of them spared the live burial of this particular hangover — slides next to him in bed. His whole world becomes the coolness of Jack sweeping hair from Bitty’s clammy forehead and the circles Jack rubs against Eric’s sour belly.

When the week comes, his body seems to be in the clear, but his head’s so muddled that all the flimsy arguments he makes with himself to get to class on the average Monday are obliterated. He has enough clarity of thought to stand under the cold spray of a shower until he can remember the ratio of butter, flour, and sugar in a shortbread dough. By the time he’s dressed, he’s taken enough of a mental inventory to know shortbread is out of the question, but there are enough eggs leftover to make a frittata with whatever produce hasn’t gone bad over the weekend.

Holster makes it downstairs first, tugging his polo shirt on as he clatters into the kitchen.

“Ah! Hot! Fuckin’ hot! Shit — “ he splutters around the mouthful he took before Bitty could warn him it’s only been cooling for a few minutes.

“If you sit for a second, you might get to taste it before you burn off what’s left of your taste buds,” Bitty scoffs.

“They’ll heal,” Holster says with a wince. An eighth of Bitty’s frittata is gone before he can quite grasp the quandary presented him. No matter how long he lives among them, Bitty will never understand the way jocks function. He understands how Lardo fell in with them so completely, with her sharpness and her eye for detail. If Eric thought he had it in him to write a halfway decent thesis that couldn’t double as the pilot for a Food Network series, he’d consider doing an anthropological study himself.

“Where are you running off to? You don’t have class today,” he asks.

“Group project,” Holster answers in the tone of voice he usually reserves for for Ivy League forwards or people who prefer The Office to 30 Rock. “Does  _ no one  _ respect the sanctity of the three day weekend? I ask you, Bits.”

Bitty hasn't managed to schedule all his classes within a four day block yet, so his only feeling about the sanctity of Holster’s three day weekend is bitterness. He’s wise enough to bite his tongue, though.

“I guess you’ll just have to miss out on team brunch, then,” Eric sighs.

Holster’s giggle morphs halfway through into a dry cough, and Bitty can’t find it in himself to feel too bad.

“You don’t even have enough of a team here for an OT line, Bits.”

“What?”

He ticks the missing members of the haus off on his fingers, reciting the information like Bitty should have known it all through his living death.

“Shitty and Lardo are still crashed in her dorm. Her roommate’s doing one of those sleep-in-a-tree-for-a-week performance art projects; Jack went for a run; and Rans stayed with March and April.”

“Whu — Who?” He dodges the minefield of Shitty-and-Lardo questions, because he’s found that they’re happiest when people don’t ask, and he’s happiest when they’re happy. Instead, he zeroes in on the vaguely familiar names he’s always associated with Farmer until now.

Grinning broadly, Holster’s knuckle slides the frame of his glasses up. He chuckles conspiratorily, muttering, “Ah, Bits,” and raises his eyebrows.

“I missed something, huh.”

Holster whistles, but the damn fool can’t quit smiling long enough for it to get much volume.

“Did you ever. March and April: Volleyball team, class of 2017. Turns out they weren’t looking to double; they were looking to upgrade to a three-wheeler.”

“That’s a terrible metaphor.” Bitty winces a little in sympathy for Ransom. There aren’t many ways to make a threesome with two beautiful girls sound dorky, but Holster sure did manage it. “You’re not upset they picked… er… I mean. Was there — Weren’t you and Rans both wheeling them?”

“Bitty, dude. Your concern is touching, but I was happy to step aside and let my best bro for life experience his first threeway. And, yanno, all the ones after that.”

Holster brushes a phony tear from the corner of his eye, but he really does seem okay with the arrangement. Bitty can’t imagine something as inconsequential as casual sex interfering with a bond like Holster’s and Ransom’s. Anyway, if Eric’s reading between the lines right, it’s not like Holtzy doesn’t know what he’s missing. It just seems like a situation where their penchant for sharing (a bed, a room, textbooks, clothes) was the obvious solution.

“That and they were actually looking for an exclusive thing. I didn’t want to get into that while I’m still figuring out how bi I am. Too much pussy overloads the senses.”

“I’m not trying to be dense on purpose here, but couldn’t y’all’ve just, uh. Converted the tricycle into a four wheeler?”

Bitty hasn't seen a face so red since Ollie ignored Jack’s warning about ice glare from the Faber atrium.

“Nah.”

“But haven't you and Ransommph — “

Bitty tastes the salt of Holtzy’s clammy palm with the force of it slapping over his mouth.

“It's not gay if it's a celly,” Holster warns.

Eric remembers every hug Jack granted him last year and concedes he might’ve been outwitted here.

He pries himself free and grumps at Holster, “Fine, so far it’s all cellies and kegsters. Didn't hear you say you weren't interested, though.”

Holtzy narrows his eyes.

“Hey,” he huffs. “Do I ask you invasive questions about  _ your  _ sex life?”

Bitty’s jaw drops with disbelief like the loose flap on an old mailbox, and it takes a few seconds of gaping at Holster’s sincerely ruffled feathers to realize it's not a joke.

“Yes! All the time!” he says.

A huge, wide hand spans the width of Holtzy’s chest, and he gets as far as a scandalized gasp and, “Name  _ once — “  _ before Eric’s yelling over him.

“Last  _ week _ you asked me how many fingers you should use to prep for your first time bottoming.  _ Last week _ !”

“ _ That _ ,” Holster warns, defensively, “was totally different. I was asking in the pursuit of knowledge, not looking for deets.”

Bitty wasn't put on this earth to deal with such an unbelievable level of frat boy metalogic.

“Besides, you didn’t even answer.”

This is not his job. He’s almost positive this falls under Shitty’s umbrella of responsibility.

“There isn’t an answer! It’s different for everyone! It’s not even the same for every person every time. There’s — Oh, lord.”

If he doesn’t do something with his hands, he’s going to wring them to uselessness and he’ll lose his scholarship. Worse, he won’t be able to touch Jack. He’d find ways to work around it if he did crush his own hands out of frustration with Adam Birkholtz, but Jack would never forgive him for cutting his playing career short.

He starts putting the food away; apparently it’s not going into anyone’s stomach any time soon. Bitty has half a hope he’ll brush off the questions, except for all Holster is an enforcer on the ice, he’s a persistent pest anywhere else.

“Why, though? Is it a size thing? So like, if the dude has a bigger dick you gotta use more fingers to — “

“Adam. I will gladly answer any questions you have about anal, but I am not doing it in my kitchen, in front of  _ Betsy _ , when you were supposed to leave for a group project ten minutes ago.”

After an about-face, Holster runs square into the kitchen doorway. Bitty can't make out every individual word he's saying, but enough of them sound like  _ fucking shit _ for Eric to get the picture.

He winds out into the hall, giving the jamb an absurd berth, and shouts behind him, “I was straight before I met you, Eric Bittle!”

“Honey, that's what you  _ thought _ .”

At least Holster doesn't slam the door on his way out.

It’s never that easy in this frat house, and Bitty should’ve known better than to be surprised when Jack wanders in, his hideous yellow tennis shoes squeaking against the floorboards.

“Should I be worried about something going on between you and Holster?” he asks mildly. Bitty has to decide between concentrating on the devastating reappearance of Jack’s two-day stubble or the diamond of sweat soaking through his heather gray t-shirt. It doesn’t leave much energy for responding to chirps, and Eric didn’t wake up this morning with enough spare sense for the collection basket to begin with.

“Here — eat. I didn’t dice eight cups of veggies for nothing, and maybe with your mouth full you won’t ask ridiculous questions.”

Instead of the groggy breakfast he'd envisioned with the boys crowded around the table, elbows bumping in cozy silence, Eric gets to sit on the counter and lock eyes with Jack over a plate of eggs. He taps Jack’s arm with his funny bone as he shuffles to slouch next to Bitty; it's a change of plans, but not a disappointment.

“It's not ridiculous. Holster’s a good-looking guy.”

“You think so?” Bitty stretches lazily away from Jack’s nose which is trying to slide up his neck and nuzzle into the crook of his neck. “You're sure it's not me that should be worried?”

The plate and fork clatter against the edges of the sink when Jack dumps them there, freeing his palm to run flush along the muscle of Bitty’s leg and push up his shorts when he reaches the crux of Eric’s thigh.

“Hell, no. I have my hands full with you.”

“What a line, Jack!”

“Is it working?”

It’s got a hell of a shot of it with no one around and Jack spreading Eric’s legs to step in closer. When Bitty tries to kiss him, though, his fingers thread through Jack’s sweaty mop of hair.

“Eugh. Try again after you've had a shower and we’ll see.”

He almost breaks when those sweet, sad eyes look up at him. Jack’s a little sneak who knows what he’s doing, but even though Eric  _ knows _ Jack tucked his chin because it means he looks up through his lashes, Bitty is weak for it. The second of addled hesitation where the shadows cast by high cheekbones and full lips steal Eric’s breath give Jack a chance to tilt back into a kiss.

It could work, Eric muses, as Jack opens up for him and pins Bitty’s grabby hands to the counter with gentle strength. Jack’s breath tastes sweet and heavy against his tongue, and the way they fit into each other’s negative space drives Bitty to press in closer. Then, legs wrapped around Jack’s waist to make his wish a reality, he shivers at the damp fabric against his calf, and Eric remembers that he has standards.

“Nope. Shower first, and we can fool around later.”

“Seems counterproductive,” Jack murmurs against Bitty’s cheek, but he sighs with heaving shoulders and an exaggerated pout as he pulls away.

Eric is able to hold still, save his fingers tapping frenetically on the counter, until the clanking pipes settle into a rhythm the old showerhead can sustain. He counts a very measured ten-Mississippi, sliding back to his feet and washing the handful of dishes in the sink with all the focus he can muster. He makes it all the way to seventy-Mississippi, listening every second for a change in the water pressure upstairs.

If he waited any longer, he reasons with himself when he lopes up the stairs, Jack might've actually finished washing up and moved onto homework or something just as responsible.

“Shits?” Jack asks in time with the click of the opening door.

“Still with Lardo. Like you didn't know the Haus was empty.”

Jack’s soft scoff is nearly lost with the trickles and splashes, but not so much that Bitty can't picture the soft-eyed smile that always comes with it.

“Never hurts to double check,” he bluffs. “I’ll be out in a minute, Bits.”

Bitty folds his shorts and his top, piling them on the tank of the toilet.

“No rush, just wanted to keep you company.” 

His briefs slip down his legs, and he has to bite his tongue to keep the laughter out of his voice. Nearly toppling over because his ankles got tangled in his drawers would be a hell of a turn of events. Even with the Haus empty, he's not sure Jack wouldn't bring it up every chance he got as soon as he was sure Bitty was okay.

“Jump my bones the second I’m clean, you mean,” Jack corrects pointedly.

“Huh,” Bitty pinches the shower curtain and flutters it in lieu of having a doorbell to ring or a knocker to rap. “I guess you have me bang to rights, Mr. Zimmermann.”

“Still not rushing me, eh?”

“‘Course not. I was only wondering if you think there might be enough to room in there for me.”

“Don’t tell me you miss the locker room already,” Jack holds an arm out for Bitty as he climbs over the tub wall, and even through his smug smile, he tugs them together and kisses the crown of Eric’s head. He works lower, guiding Bitty’s chin up with a thumb, and Eric meets him halfway.

Droplets roll from the tip of Jack’s nose to Bitty’s cheek, trailing idly down his neck until they’re lost somewhere to the pressure of Jack’s chest against his. Every twist of Eric’s tongue that pulls their mouths apart lets water mingle with the salt of Jack’s skin, and he curls his hands into slick black hair to tug Jack closer and follow the taste.

“How is this different from downstairs?” Jack mumbles into Bitty’s ear, guiding him back with a hand on his hip into the wall and keeping him there with a busy mouth.

“Please let me pretend my boyfriend isn't a dumb jock for a minute here, baby,” Bitty moans. It shifts from chastising to needy with Jack’s shift from licking water off of his neck to scraping his teeth along the skin under Bitty’s jaw.

Jack rests a hand on Eric’s inner thigh, applying the tiniest bit of force, and his arm brushes across the beginning of Bitty’s erection.

“My GPA is better than yours,” he says, pressing his smirk into Bitty’s lips before he can argue. “Between the two of us — “

“ _ Jack, _ ” he gasps. “If you’re saying I’m anything but the trophy wife in this relationship, you’re wrong.”

It might've been a better argument if Jack hadn’t slid his hand to the fork of Bitty’s legs and drawn his fingers from the base of his dick to the head without pause.

“That's not the kind of trophy I’m looking for. Would you settle for just being my boyfriend instead?”

“Oh, shut up! I swear, you and your lines,” Bitty rolls his head back until it thuds against the wall to hide his smitten, red-faced grin the best he can. Jack doesn't miss it, pulling away from Bitty’s collarbone to plant soft kisses on the apple of his cheek. He follows the curve of Eric’s smile lines until his mouth parts over the stretch of Bitty’s lower lip.

“Let me down a second. I want to suck you,” he says. Jack’s hips twitch against his stomach, and Bitty slips his hands from around Jack’s neck to his forearms.

“Your knees are — we can use my bed,” Jack says.

Bitty’s never seen such good-natured concern battle the frustration of putting off a blowjob on someone’s face before. If Jack weren't biting his lip and half-consciously pulling himself closer, he’d be the picture of inner turmoil.

“Don't worry; the edge of the tub’s as good a seat as any,” Eric says, tugging the curtain behind him so he can sit on the few inches of the tub’s lip without splashing through to the first floor. “Are you interested?”

He’s hardly seated before Jack inches into his space, cock hanging solid and heavy by Bitty’s chin.

“You obviously put some thought into this. I don't want your planning to go to waste.”

Bitty doesn't bother with a witty rebuttal. He focuses instead on the taut muscle around Jack’s groin, opening his lips against the water caught by the coarse hair on the skin and sucking on skin. His mouth slides across the crease of Jack’s thigh, and Jack’s knees quake when Bitty’s breath touches his dick.

Eric strokes his fingers down the backs of Jack’s thighs. The ridges of tight muscle lead down to the soft space behind his knees, and Bitty cups the spot with either hand to steady Jack.

When he peers up along Jack’s stomach, there’s a pair of wide eyes waiting for him. Jack looks a little drowned with tendrils of wet hair hanging past his face, lips hanging open.

He’s careful when he holds Bitty’s head in both hands, though. None of the desperate urgency in his gaze translates to the touch of his thumbs against Bitty’s cheek.

Eric leaves a slack kiss on the head of Jack’s dick, letting his lips drag against foreskin gently and slipping his tongue past to graze the slit. A groan rumbles out of Jack in time with another kiss, and a third kiss reminds Jack that they're alone — he lets out a hiss and an undisguised moan.

Bitty slips the tip into his mouth, running his tongue flat along it between bursts of sucking with hollow cheeks. Jack’s fingertips tremble against him, and he wipes uselessly with his thumb at the stream dripping down Bitty’s temple.

Eric smiles up at the straining cords of Jack’s jaw and leans his cheek into Jack’s palm until he looks back down. His bitten mouth loosens into a grin, soft and fond, setting Eric’s heart leaping up his throat.

Bitty holds Jack’s gaze squarely, and he doesn't look away as he slides his mouth steadily down Jack’s shaft. Hot skin slides along his tongue and against his cheeks, pushing further down and stretching the muscles of Bitty’s jaw. Jack curses, slows Eric with his grip, and watches raptly when he nudges the back of Eric’s throat.

In the best way he knows how, Bitty tells him it's okay; his grip behind Jack’s knees loosens, and his palms sweep upward until the swell of Jack’s ass. With soft insistence, he guides Jack closer, making him take a shaky step forward so Bitty can rest the tip of his nose against flat muscle.

“Bitty, you — “ Jack gasps as Eric swallows. His tongue rubs steadily against the underside, but he’s a statue otherwise. Jack’s shaking does most of Bitty’s work for him, pushing in and out minutely. Jack gets himself worked up, moving more quickly and with sharper movements that Bitty has to keep manageable with a firm grip. His fingers press into the giving expanse of Jack’s behind, anchoring himself as much as he does Jack, and his eyes start to tear.

“Are you okay?” Jack asks.

“Mmm,” he confirms in a throaty hum. The vibration tickles his nose and makes Jack break off in the middle of an endearment to gasp.

“Mmm?” Bitty tries a few different intonations, drawing out long hums that ring around the mouthful he has of Jack’s dick and alternating them with rumbling bursts that tickle the back of his throat.

“Bitty, Bits. I’m about to come, fuck! Bitty, let me pull — “

Eric obeys on reflex. He sniffs and gasps when Jack steps back and lets go of Bitty to wrap a hand around himself. Jack’s gaze settles on the string of saliva that connects the tip to Bitty’s chin.

“Let me,” Eric says, batting Jack’s hand away. His palm slips easy as a dream around it, pumping along the length without finesse. Precome leaks from the slit, and Bitty laps at the flushed head until Jack starts to come.

Stripes of semen catch Bitty across his cheek and down his chin before Jack realizes where he’s shooting. His hand clasps Bitty’s weakly through the last twitches of his orgasm, tangling their fingers together as the tension leaves Jack’s body.

“You’re covered in come,” Jack remarks.

“Huh,” Bitty says. He trails his tongue along the seam of his lips and catches a spot of salt at the corner of his mouth. “Imagine that.”

Dragging him to his feet, Jack kisses him lazy and deep.

“Mmph. You know, now might be a good time for you to touch me,” Eric teases.

“Shower first, Bits.”

Jack cups water from the showerhead in his hands and splashes it against his face, but he can't hide his grin that easily.

“We can fool around later,” he adds. He kisses Bitty on the temple and climbs out of the tub. The curtain flaps behind him, and Eric shoves his head under the lukewarm spray before he’ll chase Jack into his room. He really might as well clean up before he spends the rest of his afternoon getting dirty.


	6. Eric Bittle: Master Baiter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow. what a long, strange trip it has been. thanks to everyone who betaed this piece of trash and in doing so, made it slightly less trash-like. ([sam](http://samsamtastic.tumblr.com), [jaradel](http://jaradel.tumblr.com), [elizajane](http://archiveofourown.org/users/elizajane), [the incredibly tall (and patient) kayci](http://zimmerbittle.tumblr.com), [my dearest eli](http://dazeli.tumblr.com), [and my darlingest fie](http://kantperson.tumblr.com); you win the stanley cup of my heart)
> 
> thanks again to [mrsfreddykrueger](http://mrsfreddykrueger.tumblr.com) for the prompt that triggered a very sluggish avalanche

The thing about May is that with the beautiful weather — and Bitty’s birthday, and the end of the hockey season — comes graduation. The sunny skies are obscenely beautiful, April’s showers brought clover and buttercups sprinkling the campus lawns, and Bitty can’t appreciate any of it. When he’s not thinking about going home for the summer as Jack moves into his Providence apartment, he’s doing his best to forget about the whole rest of the world. He does his best to forget about each and every thing that isn’t the push and pull of Jack’s mouth on his and Jack’s body draped over his like a favorite blanket.

Jack is no better than Eric. His sense of discretion fades a little more every day — slipping their fingers together under tables, throwing his arm around Bitty’s shoulder when they’re sitting on the couch. It’s nothing out of the ordinary for the rest of the team, but after months of careful distance whenever they’ve been in public, it feels like desperation. It feels like Jack is so filled with the same needy yearning as Bitty that it’s leaking out.

Bitty knows the end of the school year isn’t going to be the end of him and Jack. It’s only that it’s the end of  _ something _ , and Eric can’t shake the thought that this one change won’t be coming on its own.

“You’re paranoid,” Jack says. He hovers over Eric, resting his elbow in the lee of Bitty’s waist. His smile is too bittersweet to convince anyone, but the thorough path Jack’s fingers trace from Bitty’s temple to his chin helps.

“Just. Please tell me if you wanna break up, okay? Don’t let me — “ Bitty hears how his voice lists higher, and he resents the burn behind his eyes almost as much as the spring dusk lighting up the corners of Jack’s half-packed bedroom. “Don’t leave me wondering when you’re gonna come back to me if you’re not coming back at all.”

He doesn’t break too bad. A tear might slide down into his hairline, but he doesn’t sniffle and his chest doesn’t shudder. It’s more than he might’ve hoped for.

Dropping to the mattress, Jack leaves Bitty’s eyesight for half a second. Eric stares up at the ceiling where Jack’s face used to be, until he’s rolled onto his side, nose-to-nose with Jack.

The hand that had turned him over runs from Bitty’s ribs to the middle of his back. Jack pulls him closer until their chests touch. Jack cups his cheek, thumb dragging slow against the puffy skin under Bitty’s eyes.

Jack’s face is too close for Eric to see his face without going cross-eyed. He doesn’t want to pull apart, though. Not ever again, but especially not now. He closes his eyes instead and hums against the new pressure of Jack’s kiss.

“Now I know you’re being paranoid,” he whispers. His breath chills the wet of Bitty’s lips. “The last thing I want is to break up. I  _ always _ want to come back to you, Bits.”

Bitty has let Jack see every inch of him, but he isn’t sure if he has ever felt this vulnerable. Jack coached him through a fear of getting hit that was so embarrassingly bad Bitty used to faint, but this is a new kind of weakness he would’ve been happy to go his whole life without Jack bearing witness.

“You say that now, but things change, Jack.”

“Bitty, I — “ Jack pauses, taking a moment to bury his face in Eric’s hair. He has just enough courage to reach up and hold the hand Jack has kept against Bitty’s face.

“Jack?” he prompts.

“I don’t know if I’ve ever said this to anyone before,” Jack begins, words measured and breathed against the top of Bitty’s head. His mouth finds its way to Eric’s forehead before it retreats entirely. Bitty dares to open his eyes, then. If nothing else, he wants to know why Jack’s face is suddenly so far.

“I love you, Bitty. Of course I’m coming back. You’re — “ Jack frowns. He has his calculating face on, the one that puts pucks in the net and wins games. “I’ve never had someone like you. I’m not walking away from this unless you want me to.”

Chest aching, Eric looks at Jack’s soft smile, the concerned pull of his brow, the flit of his eyes across Bitty’s face. His hands are so steady around him; the only hint of anxiety are Jack’s pupils, tiny in the expanse of irises blue like ice.

Jack is so brave for him. Whatever it cost him to open up that way, Bitty isn’t sure he’s worth all that trust. But he’s the person Jack loves.

“Guess you’re stuck with me, then,” he says. He starts to get weepy, and before he can embarrass the both of them even more, he tugs Jack toward him to go back to the anaesthetizing power of the taste of his own name.

If he could get away with it, Bitty would spend the rest of the evening like this, wrapped in sheets and strong limbs. He just knows someone will barge into Jack’s room and demand he make an appearance at the sendoff Holster and Ransom put together for the frogs. Dex is leaving first — tomorrow. Eric’s sentimental little heart won’t fare well this last night with everyone home. If he’s going to fall to pieces, he’d rather do it on his own time.

“Come on. It sounds like Holster’s starting the music. Not many more chances for a full Haus Hannah Montana sing-a-long, yeah?”

Bitty launches the first thing his hands find at Jack’s head. He laughs as the pillow crashes into his chest.

“You’re not helping  _ at all _ .”

Jack might not hear Eric’s grumbling over the sound of his irritating smugness, but it doesn’t matter. Jack knows, even if he isn’t paying attention to the string of rude epithets Bitty runs through on his way back to his own room.

The den is a little emptier than he’s used to. Most of the furniture is Bitty’s, but a few pieces have been sent ahead to Boston where the Duans will hold onto them until Shitty is ready to move into his new apartment. The couch is still there, though. As much as Shitty professes to love it, he doesn’t love it so much that he wants to take that little piece of the Haus with him to Harvard.

The bastard.

Bitty’s heart clenches at the beer and liquor scrounged up and collected in the spot where there used to be a table. He’s the last one down, everyone else sitting in a circle on the floor like schoolkids. Schoolkids with a cache of booze, rather.

“Bits! Help me think of a question to ask Lardo. It’s gotta be good.” Shitty yanks on his wrist. Bitty rolls his eyes and takes a seat between him and Chowder, and he looks to Lardo on Shitty’s other side for an explanation.

She grins. “What’s a sleepover without truth or dare?”

“Oh, no.”

“Relax. If you don’t wanna answer a question, you can take a shot instead,” Lardo says. “Asker’s choice of beverage, obvi.”

Wary, half convinced he already knows the answer, Bitty asks, “And what if I get a dare I don’t like?”

“We, your bestest bros, will  _ of course _ veto any dare that might get your bare ass printed in the Swallow,” Holster assures him from across the ring. “Otherwise — nut up, Bits.”

“Nut up and think of a good question for Lards. She went against everything I taught her and took the easy way out.”

Lardo isn’t bothered; she takes a serene sip from her natty and composes herself for the most inspired answering belch Eric has ever heard.

There is applause.

“I’m just keeping the balance. Someone has to keep you on pace or you’ll run out of dares before we kill the Smirnoff.”

Shitty concedes she might have a point, and she wipes a droplet of beer from the corner of her mouth.

“If you really think about it, Lardo plays things close to the chest,” Bitty says. “She knows my first boyfriend’s name, but I don’t even know if she’s ever  _ had _ a boyfriend. This could be a huge opportunity here.”

He didn’t mean to start something, but Shitty gets a kind of mad gleam in his bottle green eyes and grins with all his teeth flashing under his tidied mustache. Bitty is afraid to look at Lardo, conscious of her sharp gaze cutting into the side of his neck, so he looks across the circle at Jack. Jack, who is sitting between either pair of screaming defensemen and watching Bitty with pity and concern in equal measure. Pity because his death at Lardo’s hands is imminent; concern because now that he’s made this the topic of the night, it’s going to be hell playing emotional keepaway regarding his love life.

“Bits, you five-foot-seven drink of water, you might just have something there,” says Shitty. “Larissa,  _ have _ you ever had a boyfriend?”

“Pick one,” she replies, nodding toward the assembled mess of glass bottles and plastic cups.

Shits’s shoulders slump and his cheeks slide down. He pastes on a smile while he grabs the José Cuervo and tilts the neck toward Lardo.

With a little frown, she drinks from the bottle. Bitty only watches from his peripheral vision, sheepish and awkward.

“Now that I’m not obligated to spill my guts to you losers,” Lardo says. Her voice goes uncharacteristically warm — softer than Bitty’s used to hearing. It’s not that Lardo doesn’t have a gentle side, but she doesn’t usually show it unless a situation calls for such drastic measures. Bitty heard it last after Coach Murray told him his concussion could have benched him in the fall.

“I have a boyfriend, I guess. A  _ really _ shitty one.”

Eric has no control over the hand that shoots out and swats at Chowder’s shoulder. He gropes for purchase, probably catching skin, until Chowder obliges him and holds his wrist tightly. Bitty can’t hear Chowder’s stream of congratulations over the cry whistling through his tight throat.

“Brah. That was the sickest, most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard, and I’ve never loved you more.”

Shitty’s arms wind around Lardo’s shoulder, and he gets in about five kisses to the top of her head. Then Lardo sighs and splays her palm across his face. Her tiny body generates a shocking amount of force and sends Shits tumbling into Eric. It’s her business if that same hand burrows into the pocket of the hoodie that is Shitty’s only current article of clothing.

Bitty has to beat down the sudden urge to take a picture. He catches the subtle roundness to her cheeks even as she bites down on her twitching lips.

“Yo, Lards, it’s no big. Dex breaks into the Jameson whenever he has to tell people about the Andover dickhole  _ he’s _ dating.”

Dex’s face purples.

“I don't even _like Jameson, I swear to God,_ just because I have red hair – “

He lets Derek lay his hand against the back of his neck and deflates. He casts his gaze pathetically across the room, and in a moment of exquisite empathy, Holster pours a few fingers of Jim Beam into Dex’s solo cup.

“Drink up, buddy. It’s gonna be a long three years.”

Dex taps the lip of his cup against Holster’s and mutters, “Minimum.”

Nursey buries his face in the juncture of Dex’s shoulder and neck. Bitty sees that, notices Lardo lean into Shitty’s side, and all of a sudden, he feels so lonely he could cry. 

He pulls his arm out of Chowder’s grip.

“Right, nothing to see here,” announces Shitty. “Bits’s turn to ask a question!” 

“Uh, wait.” Chowder frowns and counts on his fingers. “I started, so shouldn't Lardo be next? Sorry, Bitty.”

She shrugs, lazy and slow. “Gotta give me some time to think of payback. Shitty gets that.”

Lardo is benign enough to the eye, curled up on herself, but she's deceptive and she’s lethal. Eric feels the cloud of assured doom break up the monotony of his closeted malaise.

“Oh, fine. Ransom: truth or dare?”

Ransom returns ten minutes later with the Canadian flag that usually hangs from the porch railings of the Lacrosse house. He has it fashioned around him like a toga, which, Bitty supposes, does fulfill the challenge ( _ “I dare you to wear something with the Maple Leaf on it for the rest of the night;” “What’s that? You dare me to tear down the Lax bros’ national disgrace and wear it back like a trophy?” _ ).

In the meantime, they've learned thanks to Chowder that Dex has a tattoo. Suspiciously, Nursey is the only one of them who had already known, and when Bitty considers that after a year of sharing a locker room  _ no one else _ had so much as caught a glimpse, he stops thinking about it. Very sternly stops thinking about it, slamming every half-formed question behind steel doors.

Holster had asked Nursey where the tattoo was, but Derek opted to finish the vodka instead. Eric hadn't quite been able to quash the explosive release of the breath he'd been holding.

There are some things he just doesn't need to know about his children.

“‘Swawesome,” Jack says when the front door swings open. He offers Ransom a subdued fist bump in warped Canadian solidarity. “It’s your move, buddy. Holster went ahead while you were gone.”

Rans sighs.

“My own best friend, my D Partner tried to skip my turn.” He lets his head hang once he's sunk back down next to Chowder.

“Didn’t think you’d be back. Irresponsible drinking woulda been the best way to honor your memory if the dudes across the streets supermurdered you.”

“Holtzy,” Rans starts.

“I know — it’s the sickest, most beautiful thing you ever heard, and you have never loved me more.”

“You’re a fucking hoser,” Ransom grunts. He punches Holster on the bicep hard enough that there’s a dull thud and insists, “If the lax dudes try to kill me and you don’t do anything but play truth or dare, I’mma  _ haunt your pasty ass _ .”

Somehow it becomes a wrestling match, but it’s one that masquerades as a hug between two equally inept kangaroos. They grapple with no soundtrack but their own mumbled insults and the disappointed sighs that echo through the den, and Bitty bites his lip. Jack watches them blankly, but he reads Eric’s thoughts and makes as if to separate them. Then, he darts around Holster and jabs his fingers under Ransom’s arms.

“That’s  _ cheating _ ,” Rans screams. He recoils, shrieking and laughing, and he scrambles away from the circle entirely. “Fuck this noise. Bits, what do you want?”

“To go back in time and tell myself to accept that in-state scholarship for Georgia Tech.”

“Right, but truth or dare?”

Bitty takes a millisecond to think and mutters, “Dare.”

He doesn’t realize right away that he’s dug his own grave. Truth, objectively, could only end in disaster. And he thinks he’s dodged the bullet at first when Ransom grins and says, “Dare you to give us a kissing lesson, popsicle-style.”

“I don’t see any popsicles around, so — “

“So, you’ll just need a little help from the audience,” Derek says.

Eric frowns at Nursey’s tiny smirk. He can’t believe his own children would disrespect him like this. He’s still bemused and disquieted that they’ve even heard about the popsicle debacle.

“Well,” he drawls, gaze skirting the room and falling on Jack. “Everyone here is spoken for ‘cept Jack. I guess — “

Thinking on his feet, Bits could be a chessmaster; a political analyst; a  _ goalie _ . He is  _ so proud _ of this loophole, this little bit of wiggle room he’s found — to keep their secret and kiss Jack in the process, and then the other shoe drops.

“Hold up, am I in a relationship I don’t know about?” Holster asks.

Eric wonders how Lardo managed to orchestrate this, because it’s too perfect a sequence of events to be random, and it is a revenge too absurdly poetic to be an act of anyone but Larissa Duan, God be damned.

“Nah, dude. Bits, looks like you got a volunteer.”

“Well, if y’all’re sure…” says Eric. Jack’s neck and shoulders square up and his eyes lock on Bitty. Maybe there is a dash of worry in that look, but most of what Bitty sees is hunger. Jack’s tongue peeks out and brushes his pale lower lip, leaving it shining in the low light of the sunset.

If Jack has any reservations here, he doesn't care to share them with Bitty.

“Quit stalling,” Holster barks.

Rolling his eyes, Bitty says, “I just don’t wanna rattle your head anymore than it’s already been rattled. I don’t know how much more you have in you before you’re captaining next year with a plate of scrambled eggs between your ears.”

“Sounds like you might be a little too confident in your makeout moves, Bits.”

_ Oh _ , Bitty thinks.  _ Challenge accepted. _

He pushes bottles and cups out of the way and crawls across the path he clears. On his knees, he leans into Holster’s space. Until Bitty pulls his glasses away and sets them carefully to the side, Holster doesn’t blink. He watches with sober, clear eyes that aren’t quite the right shade of blue, and the knot of his throat shifts with a shaky breath.

“This okay?”

“Consent or fucking bust,” Shitty chimes in. “You say the word, and we veto the tits off this dare.”

“Rude, but not wrong,” says Bitty. “I’m sure Jack’ll take this one for the team if you wanna change your mind.”

Holster relaxes, looking a little less like a deer in the headlights of an oncoming mack truck. With the kind of unpolished, vaguely painful affection Eric’s gotten used to over the past few years, Holster slaps Bitty’s shoulder and holds on.

“Lay one on me, Bits.”

Eric spares one more look at Jack. He watches raptly, the sharp angles of his cheeks highlighted with a rush of blood that continues across the bridge of his nose. He bites at the tip of his own thumb, brought close to his mouth by the prayerful clasp of his hands at his chins. Bitty wonders if Jack prays for fortitude or deliverance.

Eric can deliver either way; he’s never shied away from his exhibitionist streak, but he’s never had the pleasure of Jack’s possessiveness to go with it. He’s so aware of Jack that he could swear he feels the motion of every molecule of air between them as Jack’s antsy shifting disturbs them.

He puts a hand on either side of Holster’s chin, presses their mouths together, and glances to his right to watch Jack squirm.

He doesn’t look away. Not even for a second.

Thumbs trailing against the grain of the blond stubble on Holster’s chin, Eric sinks his hands into the hair at the back of his head (choppy because Holster can’t see it well in the mirror, and he’s got a stubborn streak about his prowess as a barber).

Holster seeks out Bitty’s lower lip. Eric tightens his grip and tugs hard enough to pull Holtzy’s face away, and Jack stares.

“If I’m giving a demonstration here, you gotta hold nice and still,” murmurs Bitty. 

“Bits would be a hella dom,” observes Shitty.

Lardo adds, “It’s always the quiet ones.”

“When has Bitty ever been quiet? In his  _ life _ ?”

Eric doesn’t take offense. Ransom asks a fair question.

He nuzzles back in and rubs Holster’s scalp in short strokes. Holster stays in place this time, and Bitty smiles at the bow of his upper lip. The bare edges of his teeth catch skin; he presses closer until they press in, but he waits to bite down.

Jack chokes, a cough rumbling low in his throat. Eric’s chest flares with a needy tug at the sound, but he’s teaching an important lesson. He can’t very well end it here in favor of pouncing on his boyfriend. Everyone needs to learn something. This is an educational endeavor. He’s truly altruistic.

He channels the greediness into his kiss. He teases the damp curve of Holster’s lip with his tongue, sliding it just to the edge of the inner lip and back again swift and light, over and over. He runs his palms from Holster’s hairline down to the side of his neck, savoring the reckless speed of Holster’s pulse against his skin.

“Maximum skin-to-skin contact. Write that one down, boys. Genius.”

“This is weird,” Chowder says back to Lardo.

Bitty pulls Holster to him through a series of open, sucking kisses that end with Eric retreating a little further back each time. Subtly, and probably unconsciously, Holster follows him, moves with him, and seeks Bitty’s mouth again.

Holster has been still as stone otherwise — marble under Bitty’s masterful hands. It has made it that much easier for Eric to track each curl of Jack’s hair as Jack runs his hands roughly through, but Bitty remembers the wide-eyed boy who watched him with his raspberry popsicle and thinks Jack has gotten a little too used to the status quo. He’s gonna up the ante.

He rains kisses on Holster’s cheek and along his jaw on the side opposite Jack, soft but clinging. He hooks an arm around Holster’s neck. He distracts Holster with a breath blown against the wet shell of his ear and plants a knee beside either hip as he slides into Holster’s lap.

“Wait,” Dex says. “Lardo’s quiet. Lardo’s quiet  _ all the time _ .”

“Yo.” Nursey packs a lot of weight into the syllable.

Shitty does him one better when he says, “Yep.”

Lips crash back against lips with a pointedness Bitty’d danced around until now. He pushes his tongue in along Holster’s and presses forward until his mouth feels stretched out. Holster is unmoving everywhere he can help it, but the reaction in his pants is automatic. The beginnings of an erection distinct from the line of his fly press up under Bitty. He isn’t so mean as to laugh at it, but he might rub down just a little.

Jack catches the swivel of his hips and fixates, nostrils flared and eyes exactly as wide as Eric remembers.

He slows down, taking Holster’s chin in his fingers and easing him away. Lightly, Bitty lingers with pecks while he does his best to vacate Holtzy’s lap with something like grace.

“Amazing how Bits is just, like, objectively the best at sex,”  Ransom comments.

“My skin is clear; my crops are strong, and my vision is suddenly restored.”

Holster blinks and stares over Bitty’s shoulder.

“Scratch that — still can’t see for crap.” He puts on his glasses. “The other shit stands. I’m pretty sure I felt my soul leave my body when you did that thing with your tongue.”

“You’re uh… You’re gonna have to be more specific. I did a few things with my tongue.”

Holster waves a hand.

“When you were just going for the tonsils, right? That thing where your tongue like, fli — “

“That makes it my turn, yeah?”

Jack’s voice is all haste and horrific, plastic brightness.

“Uh,” Lardo hands Bitty a cup of something strong enough it practically gives off fumes. She shrugs and says, “I guess, yeah. But I wanna hear more about the tongue thing later.”

Holster covers his heart with one hand and gives her a thumbs up with the other.

“I’ll hook you up, bro.”

Jack speaks up again and asks, “Bitty, truth or dare?”

This is a curveball. The unspoken rules of truth or dare demand an equitable distribution of questions to every player, as codified in the Haus by-laws; Ransom and Shitty have a brief conference to discuss whether this is a legal play on Jack’s part, but Eric is too curious to pass up the challenge. He’d thought for sure Jack would do whatever he had to to make his excuses and leave. He is almost as shocked that Jack’s not sending him desperate,  _ come upstairs now _ texts as he is that Jack is interested in playing at all.

“It’s fine with me, boys,” says Bitty. “I could do with another dare.”

For half a second, Jack smiles with the genuine pleasure of a baby on Christmas morning. Eric doesn’t know what he did to inspire it, but he’ll spend the rest of his days trying to do it again. Arousal still buzzes shallowly beneath the surface of his skin, and even after all these months he’s not used to the way it coexists with a love too big for his little body to hold.

Jack schools his face into something more understated, and he asks Bitty a silent question Eric can’t begin to decipher. All he knows is right now he’d say yes to whatever Jack asked, and he’d do it with a smile.

“I dare you to kiss your boyfriend.”

“My — what?”

Shitty shrieks, barrels into Bitty’s side hard enough to send them tipping into Chowder’s space, and noogies every inch of Eric that he can reach. About half the time, he misses entirely and digs his knuckles into different parts of Chowder.

“I fuckin’  _ knew  _ it. You’re a fucking catch; I  _ knew  _ you were holding out, you pint-sized  _ beauty _ .”

Holster and Ransom yell names back and forth, speculating among other athletes, kegster regulars, and old classmates. Bitty hears a few names he doesn’t recognize and realizes with a slow-burning horror that they’ve moved onto naming faculty.

“That’s so great, Bitty! Who is he?”

“I can’t believe Jack knew first,” Dex says.

Lardo stares at him with disconcerting, inescapable focus. She has her most suspicious glare about her, digging secrets out of the dregs of Bitty’s soul. She hasn’t figured it out yet, but by now it’s only a matter of time.

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” he says.

“You’re happy, Bittle. You should be able to share that with your friends,” says Jack. Soft, but his voice carries.

Bitty frowns.

“We talked about it before.” The line of ambiguity — keeping his anonymous boyfriend anonymous until he totally understands what in the hell Jack’s doing — is almost too faint to follow. “We talked about it, but since he’s not out, he didn’t think it was fair to ask y’all to keep such a big secret.”

“The fuck? Is he new? Bits, we’re your team.”

“Everyone here has your back, Bitty.” Dex puts a finer point on Holster’s outburst, but Eric is more concerned with the sweet, soft droop of Jack’s eyes and his coy smile.

Bitty breathes deep, drinks deeper, and asks, “What do you think, Jack?”

He nods once, subtle but unmistakable, and says, “I agree.”

“Right!” Bitty chirps. Blood rushes to his face so fast he feels dizzy, and bliss makes him feel drunk. He might be smiling; he’s fairly sure he’s laughing; and the room is fuzzy around the edges. Bitty can’t focus on anything but the fact that Jack wants to keep him. Jack wants to tell everyone they can tell, even if that only adds up to seven people, because this thing they have goes beyond the Samwell bubble.

Jack loves him, and Eric doesn’t know how to feel anything else right now.

“Uh, where were we?”

“Wait, um, actually? Jack dared you to kiss your boyfriend.”

Chowder’s revelation hangs in the air.

“So… Bits’s boyfriend is, like. Here.” Nursey struggles to pick up the thread.

Lardo confirms, “You can’t kiss someone who’s not here,” and lets the silence settle again.

“Um. Well, I’m dating Cait. And Ransom isn’t dating Bitty, right?”

Ransom mutely shakes his head.

“Nursey and Dex are together, and so are Lardo and Shitty — which is amazing! — But I guess that only leaves…”

“Bro!” Ransom wraps his arms around Holster’s neck like an affectionate boa constrictor and shakes Holster’s entire body. “You scored Bitty? Why the damn hell didn’t you tell me?  _ How _ didn’t you tell me?”

“‘Cuz I didn’t,” Holster says. “I’m definitely not dating Bitty. No offense, Bits, but dating you would be kinda like Dr. Evil dating Mini Me. Or like the biggest matryoshka doll dating the smallest one in the set.”

“That height difference, tho,” Nursey mutters.

“Doesn’t matter, ship’s not canon,” confirms Holster.

“Literally what the fuck, there’s no one left!” Shitty cries, indignant, well on his way to buzzed.

Eric loves his team, truly, but if he weren’t so distracted by Jack’s grin, he’d offer up a sympathetic thought for Lardo. It’s only that Jack is suddenly more handsome than ever, a hand rubbing the shadow at his square jaw but not hiding the stretch of his smile. He’s beautiful, he’s so, so beautiful, and he’s Bitty’s. Eric can  _ finally tell someone _ that Jack is Bitty’s.

He can’t move.

“Holy shit,” Lardo gasps.

Jack flushes and looks at the ground — the stupid, stupid ground that Bitty hates. He hates that it’s there and that Jack looks at it instead of at Eric, and he hates that there’s so much of it between them.

Jack stands and crosses the circle in the slow motion nineties romcoms are made of, and Bitty finally understands why the lighting in those movies goes soft in those scenes. He can hardly breathe, and it very well could be oxygen deprivation, but his ears catch only static, and he has tunnel vision like he’s never had before.

“Hey, Bits,” Jack whispers.

“Hi.”

Jack is gentle — always gentle. He has the softest hands, and they come up and rest on Eric’s face like Eric is made of something precious. His thumbs slide across the apples of Bitty’s cheek and up to his temple, and Bitty shivers.

“Are you gonna kiss your boyfriend?” Jack wonders.

“Waitin’ for him to kiss me, actually.”

He might do something silly like sniffle, but he certainly does not cry.

Jack kisses Bitty for the first time all over again with parted lips. His breath sends shivers along Bitty’s skin, way down to his toes. It’s been a long time since Jack has been able to take Eric’s breath away with just a touch, yet the constellation of points where their bodies touch does the trick.

He pulls away in stages. His lips graze Bitty’s cheek, and then his forehead, and then his nose. Eric opens his eyes with dreamy slowness and half expects to find himself back upstairs, waking up from a nap to find this has been the strangest wet dream of his life.

“How much longer do we wait before we dogpile?” Eric barely hears Holster.

“Give ‘em another sec. I wanna see if they get cuter first.”

“Not possible.”

Jack takes Bitty’s hands and hauls both of them to their feet. He whispers close against Eric’s ear, just checking in, and Eric musters up the energy to squeeze Jack’s fingers.

“We’re going to bed. The same bed — mine. We’re spending the night, um. Together?”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Bitty giggles. He presses his forehead against Jack’s chest. “You’re a mess.”

“A mess, and I’m your boyfriend.”

Eric Bittle was a damn fool to think he could ever get used to this.

“Alright, y’all. Behave! Sleep tight!”

He’s already halfway up the stairs, Jack following close and laughing the whole way, but Eric’s pretty sure they got the message.


End file.
